Butterfly Heart
by The Fictionist
Summary: AU - Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal inspired. After recent events in his life, Hermione refers Harry to be renowned psychiatrist, Doctor. T. Riddle. He is unlike anything Harry ever expected or imagined, and soon proves to be a great help against the very shadows and name that haunts his waking hours. If only it remained that simple.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

The waiting room was expensive and elegant. He was sitting on a dark leather sofa, trying not to fidget, his hands clenching and unfurling in his lap.

Harry couldn't believe Hermione had talked him into this.

It took everything he had, every scrap of effort and will, not to simply bolt out of the quiet room, and from the door - most particularly from the man behind the door, and all the implications therein.

The Wizarding World didn't normally have psychiatrists, and, if they did, they tended to be called 'Mind Healers', working at St Mungos.

Tom Riddle was an unprecedented case.

He was famous throughout the country for his knowledge of the human mind, and all fields of psychiatry, including criminology which allowed the Aurors to consult with him in an almost muggle fashion on cases.

Maybe that was why he was here too. He didn't know.

All he knew was that he was crumbling along the edges like burnt paper, his health slowly shriveling up to a charred crisp of ruin.

He wetted his lips, glanced at the ticking clock, down at his knees.

He'd never liked the thought of psychiatric care of any kind, muggle or magical - but Hermione had assured him that Riddle wasn't the type to shove pills at him across a table. She said he was just someone to talk to. Someone who would help sort out his thoughts, an un-judging ear.

He thought it was a load of crap, like he was some sort of broken toy that needed to be wound up and fixed.

But it had become mandatory. In the light of recent events, that he attend and at least try.

The Waiting Room was empty outside of him, meticulously tidy and clean. It was too sterile for his personal enjoyment, though he was sure some would find the white space soothing and calm.

His nails dug into his palms, almost drawing thin scarlet crescents of blood.

His throat bobbed.

The clock ticked on.

An unjudging ear aside, he still didn't like this. Still, he had to sit through six months of these sessions if he wanted to maintain his position as an Auror, and he certainly wanted to catch Voldemort. The man had gone quiet since his last murder and attack, but Harry just _knew _he was still out there. Somewhere.

Six months was more than enough - hell, as far as he was concerned, a session was enough. Riddle charged fucking exorbitant prices anyway.

He was pretty sure he could ramble at a drunk on the street and it would have the same bloody affect, and the indifference of an unjudging ear.

His insides twisted.

He was on his feet the second the door opened, mouth a little dry.

Tom Riddle was everything he'd expected from the photos and things he'd heard about the man. He was highly recommended of course, and he had an excellent track record - but that did absolutely nothing to ease Harry's qualms and doubts. Maybe it only strengthened them.

He didn't like the thought of people psychoanalysing him, of trying to get into his head. Hell, he wasn't really one for introspection at all nowadays. He was pretty aware that there were a few things not right up there, and maybe that was just another reason he didn't want to touch it. He didn't know what he would find, what he might wake up in the darkness in the back of his head.

But he was Harry Potter; he wasn't allowed to quietly crack and splinter around the edges.

Riddle was infuriatingly well dressed and polished, just like his waiting room. It all seemed like a trap to him, this conscious effort to give a certain image. The waiting room was designed to put people at ease, and Riddle...he didn't know what Riddle was aiming for, but he didn't like the thought that the man was probably aiming for something.

He was, however, younger than expected.

Harry stared uncomfortably at the floor as the man's last patient left after many a "thank you" and fervent wringing off Riddle's hand.

"Mr Potter, if you could come in and take a seat."  
Riddle's voice was like liquid velvet; he didn't trust it.

This was it. If he was going to bolt, he should definitely do so now.

Hermione would be so disappointed; Ron too. Maybe it was with that bad taste in his mouth that he stiffly entered the other room, much like a man walking into battle or a more decisive execution. He shook Riddle's hand, jaw tight, and looked for a-

A sofa. This had to be some kind of joke.

He immediately moved to take the only chair - which was obviously Riddle's - only for the man to calmly but firmly grab his arm and steer him into sitting on the sofa.

His eyes flashed.

Yeah, no way was he putting up this; the man was like a bad cliche.

He definitely wasn't doing the whole lying down thing, that was just ridiculous, and he didn't see how it would help on anything.

He shifted to be on the very edge of the seat instead, ready to spring. Riddle calmly pulled his chair around and sat in front of him, his hands folded in his lap. He didn't have a notebook, at least that was something.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, wherein Riddle just stared at him - and he was pretty damn sure that was not the way these things were supposed to go! Staring was rude, besides.

He stared back, flatly, refusing to be the first to break eye contact, to flinch of yield.

Finally, Riddle spoke, after five minutes must have gone past where they just eyed each other up.

"Why are you here, Harry?"

"Oh, so we're on a first name basis already? That's not very professional," Harry returned. To his surprise, a small smile crossed Riddle's lips.

"On the contrary, considering the nature of my line of work I see no reason for such stifling formalities whilst within this room."

"You think calling me Harry is going to make me open up to you? You have my file, why don't you just read the answer to your question. You - you know perfectly well why I'm here."

Voldemort. The murders. The attack._ Everything._

"I don't look at files," Riddle waved an almost dismissive hand. "I prefer to come to my own conclusions and observations, and, as shocking as it might be, to talk to my clients rather than rely on the judgments made by other people."

Harry snorted, despite himself, at the dry tone of voice, and then he was suspicious that Riddle should make him want to crack a smile so quickly. It wasn't the at-ease-with-this-situation type of smile, but it was one nonetheless.

"Clients? Not patients?"

"Yes, clients," Riddle said calmly. "Patient would indicate that I am going to treat you."

Harry's brow raised, and he studied the other with a skeptical curiosity now. This...wasn't what he expected. Hermione had said the man was different to others in his field, but he hadn't quite believed it. He thought she was just trying to make sure he went to the appointment.

"You're not?" he questioned.

"No. I'm going to inspire you to treat yourself. It is more than clear that your concerns are within your mind, or you would not have been referred to me, but your concerns are not clinical in the sense of a psychological disorder which would be treated differently such as Schizophrenia, or Bipolar, which is partially caused by chemical imbalances within the brain," Riddle said. "Hence, you are the primary person able to treat yourself, with assistance. Your concern is not genetic either. Why are you here?" he asked again.

"Must be interesting doing your job," Harry replied, after a moment. "One of the few professions in our world where people spill their secrets out so freely on the first meeting." As if; did people really spill their guts out to a stranger? Maybe it was therapeutic, it probably was, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"You misunderstand my question, Harry," Riddle said. "Right now I am not interested in the specific details as to why you need or want my help, I'm more preoccupied with the fact that you are visiting me when you clearly don't want to - why you are here. Friend?"

Harry didn't quite gape at the man, though his eyes might have widened briefly.

"Yeah," he said, after a moment. "Friend. I don't like psychiatrists."

"Why not?"

"You tell me, you're the psychiatrist."

"You don't like the feeling of being psychoanalyzed and picked apart, and you don't want to know whatever's in your own head, not in the least because this is going to be a painful process forcing you to confront issues you'd rather ignore. You also don't like the implication that you are in need of help, and so, somehow in your mind weak or broken in need of fixing."

"Good guess," Harry sneered.

"It wasn't a guess. It's quite common a response actually."

"Aren't you supposed to be telling me I'm a special snowflake?" he bit out, irritated. "Not trivializing my issues with seeking psychiatric help?"

"Just because something is common, does not mean it's trivial. Death is the most common thing in existence and the only thing every creature in existence shares, yet I would hardly call that trivial when our lives are ruled by it, by its impacts, and our fear of it," Riddle returned, not missing a beat. Harry paused at the thought, before finally looking away and around the room.

Much like the waiting room, it was clean and tidy. There was the sofa, the chair, a desk and a large cabinet. There was also another door.

"Where does that go to?" he asked, instead.

"I'm sure you'll find out during the course of our sessions."

"You seem so damn sure I'm going to come back, when I just said that I don't like psychiatrists."

Riddle laughed, lightly.

"I'm not your average mind healer."

"Clearly," Harry muttered. "Your professionalism leaves much to be desired."

"Where would professionalism get me on such a personal matter? I fully intend to push you out of your comfort zone, Harry. I am going to get inside of your head, and I'm going to drag you there too however much you would rather run away from your problems."

"Not if I don't come back you won't."

"Well, you haven't left yet, have you?" Riddle smirked. Harry scowled at that, immediately getting to his feet, and the other held his hands up in a placating gesture. "One session. Isn't that what you promised your friend? Hermione?"

"How-"

"I don't need to read your file to recognise the Ministry's golden boy Auror, and to know who he keeps company with. From there it is a matter of logical deduction as to who sent you when you obviously didn't send yourself. Moreover, I had a feeling someone would refer you my way sooner rather than later. It was only a matter of time."

Harry's scowl deepened, and he clenched his jaw. Riddle only continued to survey him evenly, only making a polite gesture for him to sit down. The look in his eyes was very different however - challenging, daring him to run like a coward. It was the look in his eyes that stopped him, there was something there, which he couldn't put his finger on. And, of course, the challenge against cowardice.

Sometimes he hated being a Gryffindor.  
He sat down.

* * *

Many people turned to psychiatry, mind healing and such professions out of a desire to help people, to make them better.

Tom could safely say he wasn't like that at all, and maybe that was made him exceed at his job. He didn't follow the conventional norms of his trade, he refused the traditional methods, and his motivations was purely selfish.

Simply put, he liked secrets, and he liked puzzles, and he could quite easily put on a different face tailored for the requirements of his current projects - official or otherwise. He could play the gentle listener, he could give people exactly what they wanted or expected.

Harry was no different, though his points on the matter remained valid, and he hadn't lied about his methodology.

Most of the people who came to him were dull - interesting in their own way, in the complexity of their emotions which he simply couldn't understand but devoured eagerly to feed his own appetites for power and control, for trophies, for the hearts and souls he consumed for his own ends - but he was excited for this one.

It was...perfect. He really had been hoping someone would refer the 'Boy who lived' to him.  
Harry Potter. Just perfect.

Of course, the boy wouldn't remember him, and didn't know all that he'd done and his extra-curriculars, which just brought a delicious irony to the situation.

Especially because they would inevitably be talking about Voldemort. His eyes gleamed a little, for a split second, as Harry settled on the sofa again.

Perhaps it helped that Harry was such a famous figure as a cover for his base of knowledge, but really there was a much more personal history here. This was going to be so much fun. The best in his collection, and he always collected them in the end. They were his, all his pets, and he would treasure and claim them.

He always had been more selective with his clients once he had the acclaim to do so.

He would fix Harry, certainly - never let it be said he wasn't good at his job. The interesting thing would be what he fixed him into, what he uncovered, and how he could use the knowledge to keep his own secrets and agendas safer, how he shaped Harry and would with time possess him too.

Harry was the one who'd got away from him once before. No longer.

He offered the younger a man a brilliant smile.  
_Let the games begin._

He'd always had a very good idea of what he wanted.

* * *

**A/N: Inspired by Hannibal/Silence of the Lambs. Yay for new stories. Also got into Screenwriting now, which has proved very shiny. Nonetheless, hope you liked this first chapter/teaser, and enjoy the story to come :)**

**Also, no, it's not going to be exactly the same as Hannibal/Silence of the Lambs, just taking the premise and letting my imagination run away with me...wish me luck! Feedback would be much appreciated, as always.**

**You'll find out more about their backstory and everything going on in the AU as we go along...and no, I'm not saying Tom's going to be a Cannibal...but, well, you'll see ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Scarlet. Ivory. Vacant gaze. Red hair. Dark hair. Legs and arms spread and pinned to the wall like a butterfly on a cork collection. Mouth open in a silent scream. Blood on his hands, in the corner of his mouth and it the quiet drip onto the floor.

Harry's eyes snapped open as he stared up into the darkness, the bed sheets drenched in a cold sweat. For a second, the images still swirled through his mind, like the after flash of a camera burnt on his mind, before he sat up, shoving his twisted duvet aside.

He rubbed his eyes, chest heaving for air, swallowed.

Riddle's contact details and office hours were still tacked onto his fridge, and he stared at them now when he moved to stand in the kitchen, cold seeping into his toes as he clutched a glass water in his hand.

He wished his hand was shaking. It wasn't. It was perfectly steady.  
He knew there was something deeply wrong with him.

In the Auror department they had called it a traumata, a response to all of the things he'd seen. It wasn't that unusual, "the job gets to you after a while."

The job did get to him, but not in the way they thought.  
At least, his crime scenes did.

They wanted him on Voldemort's case the most, because apparently he was so good at making links and understanding the man, his motives, thoughts. If only they knew.

He sipped his water.

He felt it. At those ones. It was like something extra in the copper of blood, in the emptiness of the victim's eyes - something dark like a shadow that sunk into his bones and hooked into his guts like chains.

His heart was speared onto the wall like their bodies, in a parody of museum collection. Always the same. Voldemort did so love to collect things, he knew that. He wished he didn't. He wished he didn't know of Voldemort's tendency towards trophies.

He didn't know why the monster did the things he did - without any seeming purpose or cause. There didn't seem to be any greater plan, and if there was it was jumbled, blocked off from him, like a frosted window which allowed him to see a distorted version of the view.

But he felt it.

In any other crime scene, any other case, he could analyse, he could do his best, he could feel sick at the worst stains of humanity.

At Voldemort's crime scenes, he felt the possessiveness, the mutilated almost-love, so fleeting, when he held their life in his hand, the rush of power, the beauty the man-or-monster saw in death which blurred indistinguishably with absolute terror.

He didn't know why he felt it. They said it was because of the first incident, the Avada Kedavra connection. It was muffled, but when he stepped into the man's crime scene - into his mind and the blackest aspects of his soul - he could feel it and it claimed him.

The most awful, terrible things, coupled with the wildest of joys and it terrified him that if he'd been to one of those scenes he would come home with a blood lust itching in beneath his skin and thoughts of murder slipping through his dreams.

He'd see people on the street and wonder, involuntarily.

The man made him feel violated. Voldemort made him feel like he was the killer, that he could be the killer...that maybe lines of red tape should become redder and then broken entirely for the sake of greater justice.

The worst was that he thought the link, that small link, went both ways even if he couldn't pinpoint it, because over the years it got more elaborate, the crime scenes - like Voldemort was trying to impress him.

To show him what he could do.

And all the time his own reputation grew - the boy, the Auror who could maybe catch Voldemort - who could defeat him - the victim that had once gotten away, or so they said. The Boy who Lived.

He shook his head to clear it, fingers clenching tightly on the glass.  
Looked at the contact details black against his fridge.

Hermione said he was breaking. That maybe he just needed someone to talk to about the horrible things he'd seen, to be told that feeling disgusted and frightened and guilty was normal.

What he had wasn't normal.  
They knew he could get into the man's head, the whole Auror department exploited it. They didn't seem to realise that it wasn't like flicking through the pages of the book, it was getting sucked straight into the story and feeling everything.

Voldemort did the crimes. He did the crimes - and there was no way to say that, to express that - without sounding insane.

He wasn't insane, he just...

The wiring was wrong. Crossed too much with the mind of a psychopath, uncaring of anything but his own desires.

Maybe that was even why he'd got into working as an Auror in the first place; a sense of needing to compensate for the bloody hopes in his head, the way his pulse quickened guiltily, as if in greeting, when he stepped into Voldemort's gallery of crime.

And he was good at his job.

He needed to keep doing his job unless he wanted to sleep with another victim in his head. He needed to stop Voldemort before the man consumed his own mind entirely, dragged him into a world where he was the one the Aurors hunted. How long could one stare into the abyss after all? Especially when the abyss stared back so vividly.

And every so often it would go back to that one, to his parents.  
Red hair. Dark hair. And a baby in a crib.

He saved them. He killed them. It all tangled and he hated it.

It didn't even make sense in his head.

Dumbledore had once told him he empathised with Voldemort too much, and maybe that was true. There was no sympathy involved, just the kills as if they were his own.

And he didn't even know who Voldemort really was.  
There was never a mirror with which to see himself - see Voldemort - and he always saw it from the man's eyes.

He drained the glass and set it down.

No mind healer could help with that.  
He was like Tom Riddle's magical-muggle psychiatry career. He was unprecedented.

Riddle had been interesting, that was for sure. They'd just talked on the first session earlier that day; not about anything in particular, just chatting.

He didn't let his guard down.  
He had enough people in his head already to add another, and he wasn't cruel enough to let anyone else crawl their way in either.

It wasn't a nice place to be.

There were some things psychiatrist's couldn't fix.

He wasn't broken. There was nothing wrong with his mind to fix, there were no issues to resolve, or no more than most people's anyway.

He just happened to kill someone in all the ways that counted and festered on someone's heart every time he walked into certain crime scenes, like the trigger of a gun that never had the safety on.

He had a soul bond with a mass murdering psychopath.

The last Voldemort crime scene had just been the final straw. A boy, his age, dark haired, so obviously a replacement for the real target - for him - with his heart torn out. In the heart's place was a butterfly, pinned down still alive just like a collector would, always still alive when the crime scene arrived, but never able to fly again.

No, his head wasn't too be messed with, because there truly was something dark there, something he never wanted to face again by poking around.

He decisively burnt the small business card.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle was beyond frustrated.

It had been a week - a whole, bloody week - and Harry Potter had yet to turn up in his office again.

He stabbed a knife moodily through his sketch pad, and through the carefully drawn features immortalised on the page.

The boy was supposed to come back. He'd done everything right.  
What had he missed?

Was he supposed to give him more time? Another push? He frowned.

He'd been able to feel the boy's emotions since that day - it had been a matter of deduction to work out who's the feelings were, because he didn't see how they could so suddenly be his own.

Even if they felt like it.

Before, the only happiness he'd got, the greatest power and delight, had been when he held a fragile life in his hands with the full knowledge that however much they pleaded he was going to rip it away.

Wizards were supposed to be Gods, and, once, in his adolescent years, he'd intended to rule them all as Dark Lord. To make them better, and to rule the muggles too.

But that wasn't true power, he'd found that out with time.  
Power was immortality and control, and wizards weren't gods. They were the same as the muggles. Magical, yes, and a step up the latter, but their thoughts and fears...they were the same. _Weak._

He'd always been able to see into people's minds, though not quite so literally before he discovered the art of legilimency - but manipulation and seeing the patterns had always been devastatingly simple for him.

It was useful, it allowed him to twist the webs of the world to suit his own needs, and he'd intended to use it to help them...they didn't deserve his help. They weren't worth his help.

Ironic that he'd caved out this path for himself then. The Psychiatrist. The person who helped others. Some said people became mind healers in an effort to diagnose and help themselves, but he was flawless and above them in every way.

If they knew his mind, they would call him a monster and a freak. Maybe he was, but he was the greater creature and their tiny dreams and mind bended beneath his scrutiny and talents.

He fixed them up, he played with their minds, all for the control and delight of forcing them to face their own fears.

Maybe he was trying to understand them, their stupidity, their common emotions because it was never anything he felt himself before the boy.

Maybe he needed a guise for murder, and maybe he occasionally found gems.

His line of work was fantastic because he got to work with broken minds, interesting minds, minds that came to rely and depend on his assistance so utterly that it was a rush within itself.

And they thought he was _kind._

He was the Lord of the Shadows, he dictated the darkest aspects of their world and ruled them, silently, from above mere mortal thrones of existence, as puppet master.

His toys, his marionettes, like Lucius Malfoy smiling and speaking on his strings.

It could be rather _unfortunate_ for the man's treatment if he didn't make the election run smoothly.

Potter still hadn't come back.

Had he known who he really was? Somehow realised? He didn't think the boy had.

No, he couldn't have had, of the Aurors would have already been here.

He had to admit, when this soul connection had first been born, his immortality, he'd been sceptical to have the boy's emotions flitting about in his head.

Until he realised how his own emotions were effecting Harry in turn; then it really was fascinating.  
The boy was so good, so in conflict with him, and yet, as shown, still susceptible to repeated conditioning, to emotions.

He never gave the boy anything bad, he didn't give him anger and further pain, not directly anyway outside of murdering his parents and then his godfather when the man had got too close to his trophy, but...

No. He gave Harry the happiest moments of his life, spliced into murder and violence in the most confusing, sinful combinations possible.

He'd always loved the rush of power he got from holding someone's life in his hand, and to know that one person shared that love of murder, understood him, however involuntarily...was thrilling.

But the boy hadn't come back.  
It wasn't anywhere near as fun if he didn't come back, if he couldn't pick through his head and guide him and fix him and break him and mould him.

His jaw clenched.

Why hadn't he come? Yes, he hadn't liked the thought of a psychiatrist, of people in his...

Oh. He didn't like people in his head. He'd said that himself, hadn't he? That it was common, and indeed it was. But Harry's situation wasn't. His head was beautifully crowded by his own shadow.

He knew exactly what he had to-was that the door?

* * *

Harry couldn't believe he was here, again. He'd sworn not to - he didn't even know what was dragging him back. Well, okay, he did. But he consoled himself with the fact that Riddle was a remarkable psychiatrist, and he wasn't here for himself.

It was professional interest, nothing else. The man was a criminologist after all. He'd talked to the Auror department about the matter, and they'd agreed that Riddle would be useful to have on board.

The door to the office opened, and the man stared at him for a few seconds, before smiling.

"Harry. Please, come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
Did he suddenly remember they were supposed to have daily sessions? He withheld that comment, and the venomous bite it was served with, neatly walking over to his desk and sliding his sketchbook into a draw, locking it with a discreet flick of his wand.

Harry watched his movements curiously, warily.  
"How would you psychoanalyse Voldemort?"

Now this could be an interesting development.

He gestured for Potter to take a seat on his sofa again, moving over into his chair.

He didn't work for free, after all...

* * *

_A/N: Yup, so I'm back. Next time you will actually meet other characters outside of Tom and Harry...promise. Hope you like this. I was told it was quite similar to Dancing with Deceit, and premise wise it probably is, but I think this is different. And yeah. Different scenarios...different history. Different spin on the prophecy as always :P (though that's not come up yet)_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

"What's spurred this on?" Riddle asked. "You seemed rather against my company and the possibility of returning here, last time we talked."

"I'm not here for a therapy session," Harry said tightly. "I'm here because you're supposed to have a reputation as a remarkable psychiatrist and criminologist, and have been known to consult on cases before. The Auror department requested I talked to you."

"Indeed. I'm also certain that the Auror Department requested you talk to me about yourself, as opposed to as a consultant on cases."

"Should I take that as a refusal to help?"

"Not at all," Riddle murmured. "But I told you last time that I don't like to make presumptions and judgments without evidence. I would rather not base this all on the no doubt wildly exaggerated media coverage done on the man."

"Oh. Right. Well, I'd offer to take you to a crime scene, but thankfully there are no fresh ones."  
And he had no desire to go near one of them anyway. No, worse, he almost did, because whilst he was at the scene he felt wonderful and the ideas sparked through his head like lightning.

It was when he fell back into his own head that he hated it, regretted it, clutched the sides of his sink and threw up in the toilet even when there was nothing left but to merely retch an empty stomach.

But he did have the photos, in preparation for this.  
"I have crime scene photos, if they would help for now."

"Are you recruiting me to do your job?" the man sounded amused. "That's hardly very professional." Was the bastard teasing him?!

Harry shoved the glossy pictures over instead, determinedly not looking at them, eyes fixed on Riddle, and for several long moments the psychiatrist just studied him in turn.

Then he took the photos, and looked down to flip through them and examine them, a veiled fascination in his eyes that may have disturbed some. Harry supposed criminal minds would interest the man.

"Well?" he questioned, after a long silence.  
Riddle, to his surprise, moved so he was sitting on the other end of the sofa instead, spreading the photos out between them.

"I find it interesting that you would need to consult me on this case, Harry. You know everything these pictures are trying to say already, I can tell. You took them, did you not? The photos? Or at least some of them. You know where his focus is."

"I speculate. Psychoanalyse the damn photos in regards to him, and not me."

Riddle continue to appraise him for a moment.  
"He's very precise, meticulously so. Every aspect of the crime is planned and premeditated, and arranged for a certain effect. There is a clear link to collecting; with the butterfly in the chest pinned like a collector would, and the way the victim is splayed and pinned to the wall too is reminiscent of this. It could be a larger representation of the butterfly pinned to the heart, and the butterfly is often symbolised with resurrection and so immortality, along with metamorphosis. I could also go further and make literary connections to iconic butterfly symbolism, notably, John Fowles 1963 novel The Collector. Are you familiar with the story?"

"Man collects butterflies, kidnaps girl and keeps her locked up in his basement. Explores the idea of beauty in freedom and whether the object of desire is still beautiful taken from its natural habitat and pinned down," Harry bit out, methodically.

"Indeed," Tom said, almost a purr in his tone, but not quite. "Very good. Ominous though, isn't it? I can see why your superiors would have referred you to me. The pinned position could also be likened to the Vitruvian man as an example of the ideal form, or even to crucifiction and so the sacrifice of the saint by God."

"Didn't realise you were a religious man, Riddle."  
Harry spoke to cover the jolt that ran through him at that comment...the saint. He wasn't a saint, and God didn't corrupt Jesus, but...no. Voldemort did view himself as a god among men though.

"Tom. My name is Tom, and no, I'm not. Though here I could cite Nietzsche with his claim that though we are in a time of rising Atheism, of which I adhere to, we all have a religious instinct which represents the human desire for something greater."

"Nietzsche also said that he couldn't believe in an all powerful god existing, because he couldn't believe that such a god wouldn't be himself," Harry said, flatly. "Pinch of salt as far as he's concerned."

"Hmm. Voldemort is obsessed with you, but, again, you already know that. You've also avoided looking at these photos, and considering your profession it seems unlikely you're squeamish. You've seen plenty of crime scenes, what makes these so special to you?"

"They're not special to me," Harry growled, furiously, eyes flashing. How the hell did the man keep turning this on him so insistently? What was the point? He was getting paid for his time either way! "I'd just rather not look at corpses before lunch. It turns the stomach."

"Perhaps. I'm not entirely sure what you and the ministry are hoping to gain from this consultation regarding Voldemort. I'm sure you know him better than I do."

Harry's jaw clenched.

"Ever heard of a fresh perspective?"

"You're not denying understanding him?" Riddle raised his brows, and Harry resisted the urge to curse, snatching up the photos and stuffing them into his bag.

"If you're not going to be helpful-"

"I prefer to direct my time and energy to where it is needed, such as to you, rather than him."

"I don't need your help," Harry hissed, shooting to his feet. "I'm not mad!"

"I never accused you of being so," Riddle said, calmly. "That doesn't mean that these scenes are not disturbing for you. You wished for me to psychoanalyse Voldemort? Combine the fact he's a collector with the allusions he's making, and his obsessive personality - strong attention to detail in the precision, for example - and then the fact that in his last crime scene before you were sent to me the victim was a rather obvious substitute for you, and I think it's very clear where his mind is currently preoccupied. A man with such precision to detail would not like loose ends, and the boy who lived is that in all sense of the words to a killer such as him. It also makes you rather unique, at the moment, if just for that fact alone. Oblige me by answering a question, please, in your professional opinion, what does obsession plus collection lead to in the light of what was taken from the victim?"

Harry's fingers furled tightly, nails digging into his palm, and Riddle's gaze remained glued to his face. Bile clawed up his throat, the careful scraps of his composure shaking.

"I'm his ultimate target. I already gathered that."

"Then why are you so bothered about catching him now?"

"Because the bastard's going to hunt me down and rip my heart out!"

"Which should give you an ample opportunity to catch him, I'm sure, providing you don't die first. You don't need to hunt him down if he's going to come to you. Regardless, you're missing out an obvious point - metamorphosis."

"I-what? Obviously not every possible connection on a crime scene is relevant-"

"It is with him. You know it is. Precise, isn't he? Everything is planned, every possibility explored."

This was getting too close to the topic, and Harry backed away, uneasy. He couldn't believe this had been a good idea - it didn't matter that he'd been compulsorily sent to Riddle to deal with this, and act as a medium for consultation as he wasn't currently in a state that would allow him on the case as actively in the field - he-

"Change of heart, Harry. Stealing of hearts. Obsession. Would be almost romantic if he wasn't murdering for your attention."

Harry stopped, uneasiness draining. Right. That was different from what he'd expected, it had nothing to do with twisting him onto the wrong side of the law, making him a monster too. Of course, it had been irrational to assume Riddle would make that connection without all the facts, and he was stupid for getting so worked up, but Riddle had been managing to come across as so eerily omniscient about the whole thing...

God, he needed to wind down, and now he just laughed, a little hysterically.

"That's your diagnosis, doctor? That the man's in love with me? No. How am I the one in therapy if that's the conclusion you came to?"

"You're being very rude..."

"But, I mean, come on. Really? Sure, he has a sense of attachment to his victims, but it's definitely not like this. He devours them, their fears and hopes for mercy, their realisation of death when he's so scared of it-" he stopped himself. Riddle raised his brows.

"Again, why are you consulting me if you're the expert?"

Harry's mind ground to a halt again, as he spluttered.

"Did you just give that whole spiel just to provoke a reaction and prove a point?" he demanded, aghast. "You're a fucking horrible psychiatrist."

"Still being rude..." the words were very delicate, but something about them gave Harry pause, like there was some other quality lurking there, and Riddle had stood now, facing him.

There was something sparking in the air, an almost danger, but-no, it was gone, there was nothing...

"Sorry; but you can't deny that you're methods are unconventional. You could have stirred me to an emotional breakdown pulling a stunt like that!"

"Easier to build a demolished building up sometimes then try and plug in the cracks in the foundation."

Harry frowned.  
"What the hell are you trying to say?" he bristled.

"To use the cliche, the first part of healing is acceptance," Riddle stated, simply.

"I don't have a problem!"

"Then why can't you sleep?"

"What?"

"Insomnia tends to be a sign of larger problems and concerns in a person's life. You're wearing a glamour, noticeably around your eyes, which is suggestive of an attempt to deflect concern about what would most likely be rather prominent bags around your eyes."

"I hunt killers for a living. A few nightmares and sleepless nights here and there does not mean I need therapy," Harry protested.

"No, but the fact you can't do your job and bring yourself to look at old crime scene photos is more telling," Riddle murmured. "As does the fact that you're here."

"Professional interest. My supervisor requested I consult you regarding the case."

"Yes, but I don't believe his overall aim was to get me to psychoanalyse the killer. They have the boy who lived for that, my job is to get you back on your feet, fit for duty, and to keep you that way until Voldemort is caught."

"You're very blunt for a psychiatrist," Harry muttered. "Aren't you supposed to be going to great extents to pretend this is all just friendly conversation?"

"I wouldn't insult your intelligence in such a manner. As I said in our first session, I'm here to help you solve your own problems, not to fix them for you. You can pretend this is all just friendly conversation if it helps though. This is mere obligation to you at the moment, you're feigning the motions of helping yourself rather than actually doing so. Yet, it is more than clear that you don't like the state of mind you are in, so I must admit I'm curious as to your reluctance. I presume you already know my job requires an oath of confidentiality?"

"If I don't want you in my head, I'm not going to answer that particular question, am I?" he returned.

Riddle gave him a smile to that comment.

"I suppose not. You can relax, Harry, you're safe with me."

"Perhaps you should go back to psychiatry school then, because I'm not worried for myself."

"You believe I can't handle the dark things in your head? Perhaps you would allow me to be the judge of that before you block the whole world out?" Riddle suggested evenly.

Harry just shook his head.

"Find another project to label and another broken little sparrow to fix. I have no use for it," he said, curtly, turning away. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Riddle."

"My, if I give you the courtesy of assuming intelligence, perhaps you should allow me the same doubt?" Riddle called after him. "I would never refer to you as a broken little sparrow."

Harry came to a stop at the door.  
"What would you refer to me as then?" he asked.

"A Honey Badger. Sounds cute and relatively harmless, like something you'd want to take home. Like the prey. In reality a honey badger is incredibly tough, vicious when attacked, and capable of taking out prey much larger than itself."

Harry stared, uneasy all over again, and Riddle offered him a small smile.  
"I'll expect to see you tomorrow, Harry. We can do lunch."

* * *

Rufus Scrimgeour really wasn't sure what to think of the current state of the Auror Department.

It was very different from what he was used to, to tradition, with the infiltration of more muggle techniques. Not that they weren't useful, but nonetheless.

Their greatest asset and liability however was still Harry Potter.

He'd snatched the boy up straight from Hogwarts, despite Dumbledore's warning that Harry shouldn't be allowed so close to the Voldemort case, that he didn't understand.

All he knew was that the boy was brilliant at making connections, especially those that involved Voldemort. He was a natural! Of course, with time, he noticed the health issues starting to creep in, the way Harry would just freeze in the middle of those crime scenes, his eyes glazing over as he'd move around the room in a gait very different to his own. It was far more confident, elegant - the sort of elegance and grace he only normally saw on Potter when he was on his broom.

It was a little unnerving to watch, he would admit, and dangerous to snap the recruit out of before he was ready. When he was ready, he'd go very pale, glance down at his hands and examine them as if he was looking for something different, before spouting off observations, motivations, a story of what happened and why in clipped tones, which spewed onto possible symbolism and interpretations.

Then he'd walk out.  
At first, it would work well, but now...he didn't quite know what it was, though Harry had once said something along the lines of 'you don't understand what being in his head is like', but now...now the Auror would adamantly refuse to set foot on a crime scene.

Robards had once seen the boy absently spend half an hour washing his hands in the sink until the skin was red and scalded.

Harry Potter was breaking even if he wouldn't admit to himself, he would spend longer and longer silently stalking around the crime scene before he started talking about it, and he got the overwhelming suspicion that the other was keeping some facts and observations to himself.

It wasn't that they didn't have plenty of other talented Aurors and recruits on the case, and the aid of consultants on such high profile murders, but...Harry Potter was the best. He did it in half an hour, with the most astonishing leaps of thought from the evidence.

That was why he assigned him to Riddle. The man had a long history of helping out on cases, and had an esteemed reputation. If anyone could fix Potter and help him, it was Riddle.

Besides, he was sure the man could be of great help with his observations too, if Potter was refusing to cooperate on the matter.

He didn't know what exactly was wrong with the boy, but he knew there was something there, something dark that he would ignore for the sake of justice and the greater good in this endless war of terror and crime.

It would all work out in the end.

It was just a matter of how damaged Potter would be when all was said and done.

* * *

Tom was rather delighted with how this day had turned out, in the end.  
Harry had come back. He knew he would come back.

First, he would gain the boy's trust, and then he would continue planting seeds of his own. He would possess Harry's heart and mind and soul in its entirety - it was rightfully his, after all.

His property. His Horcrux.  
It was a shame, in a way, because Harry would make such a beautiful crime scene, but, alas, he needed to be protected.

And, if he was his and him already, then he might as well complete the transformation.

An assistant in murder, someone to talk to, gloat to, didn't sound bad at all.

A partner in crime, in the most literal sense of the word,

And, if not that, well, it was adorable playing with Harry's psyche.

He debated what to make over lunch tomorrow, and his next actions, as he walked down the street with his grocery shopping.

Something light, fish perhaps, with a fruity white wine.  
Venison. Venison was good. He'd bought some venison, delicious, succulent. Venison it was.

He'd always enjoyed cooking. Whilst most of his contemporaries had house elves to take care of it, he found his tastes more...particular than that. Besides, it was relaxing, and he liked the control he had over the meal.

He was very careful about what he let near him and around him.

Not everyone was worth his presence, and those who refused to yield and show the proper respect to a wizard of his power, intelligence and caliber were the worse.

What would go well with the venison?  
Potatoes, in a creamy sauce?

Splendid.

Or was that too formal?  
He did like venison though, and he didn't want to come across like he had poor taste.

Perhaps he should save Venison for dinner, and make something that was more snack like.

He hoped Harry bought more crime scene photos, he got such a thrill seeing his murders from Harry's perspective. He payed such flattering attention to the details.

It was nice to know his work was appreciated.

* * *

_A/N: So yeah, premise is similar to DWD, but I think the main differences will come in later on both plots? They're going to head into different directions and interpretations, and, um, yeah, I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I shall probably fail in reality. Tom should give me therapy ;) Actually, no, he shouldn't, that would be unnerving, but, nonetheless..._

_I'm on withdrawal from "Hannibal", first episode on NBS a couple days ago. If that explains anything. One episode and I'm obsessed. It's not good. But if you're not too squeamish/easily traumatised - watch it! IT IS BRILLIANT!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

"Wow, this is...impressive," Harry murmured, staring at the spread in front of him. "If I knew therapy involved feeling like I was dining at the Ritz, I would have started ages ago." He paused. "Though I suppose the prices are similar. Seriously, you charge a fortune."

"People pay for the quality they want," Tom returned, lightly. Harry's lips thinned.

"True. But it should be more that they get the quality they deserve."

"Perhaps, but nonetheless our world is ruled by money, and not by sentimentality, however much the Beatles would declare otherwise." He gestured for Harry to sit down at the table that had been pulled into the normal consultancy room, and he did so, with a small involuntary snort of amusement at the response, even as he saw something tiny flicker in Riddle's expression.

"Aren't you supposed to be encouraging me to think happy, optimistic thoughts and not express such cynicism at the state of the world?"

"Would you believe me if I did advocate such a worldview considering we both know of the monsters that lurk in the dark? But, of course, Harry. I can oblige. Voldemort, you see, is just a misunderstood tragic little boy and maybe if he was hugged more he would be doing my job as an upstanding member of the society instead."

"Oh god, you're awful. Stop it. You can't make jokes like that - it's obscene! He's a mass murderer."

"And yet you appear almost amused. Maybe we'll find ourselves getting on sometime." Riddle tipped his glass a little as if in toast to that, before setting his wine down and leaning over to serve up the food. "You can't look into people's minds for a living without gaining a grim sense of humour."

Well, he supposed that was true, even if the reference to going into people's minds made his insides twist. He knew Tom didn't mean it in that way, but...hell, he managed to slip such comments in often enough, inadvertently, for it to jolt him every so often.

He tried some of the meat instead, feeling flavour melt in his mouth.

"Taste alright?"

"It's delicious," Harry mumbled, swallowing, receiving a smile in response as Tom tucked into his own meal. "Where did you learn to cook? And what is this anyway, I don't recognise the taste?"

"Venison. And I taught myself, during my travels. I've always enjoyed the finer aspects of life and culture, so I made it a personal mission to pick up a new recipe wherever I went."

"You've travelled a lot then? Colour me jealous, I've never even left the UK. There's always been-" he paused, "er, other stuff." Voldemort. People trying to kill him.

"I can imagine. Maybe I'll take you for a restful hunting trip with me sometime."  
He was being teased again, wasn't he?

"Yes, I can imagine that. This is my mental patient who's apparently traumatised by seeing lots of people get murdered, so I took him with me to a horror movie cabin in the woods so I can kill more things in front of him," Harry said dryly.

"You mean that doesn't sound like effective treatment? Shocking. Regardless, I wouldn't want you in the woods. You would no doubt attract another serial killer and ruin my holiday."

Harry felt a laugh burst past his lips, despite himself.

"I don't know how you get away with this. Bloody hell." He shook his head. He suspected Riddle was doing it to put him at ease with banter, especially the morbid sort of banter that was most likely intended to make him more comfortable into wandering into more serious discussions involving death and guts. He changed the topic again, sipping some of his wine. "What's the best place you've been?" he asked.

"Depends what you want to visit for. I would be hard pressed to pick," the other stated. "If you could go anywhere, where would you want to go?"

"I don't know. Never really been anywhere before, so it's probably not the most interesting question you could ask me. A famous city I guess. Paris, Rome, Venice..."

"Not a nice beach hide away somewhere?"

"What, to be left alone with my head? No thanks. I wasn't joking about the horror movie aspect of a cabin in the woods."

"The Shining. Go mad with your thoughts and isolation and try to murder me?" Riddle raised his brows.

"Something like that."

"What is it about your own mind that scares you so?"

"And we're back to the psychoanalysis. Cut it out," Harry bit out, shoulders hunching on himself, tense all over again. He took another sip of his wine, determinedly. "Why can't you just believe me when I say you won't like it in my head?"

Riddle was silent for a moment, and continued to eat, chewing carefully, taking a sip of his own wine too.

"Not allowing me to help you won't make your problems disappear, Harry. There'll still be there, festering for as long as you flinch and refuse to confront them, growing in the back of your mind like an infestation. You're going to have to face them someday, the question here is do you want to have to do alone? Or with someone like me, who can pull you out of it if it gets too much."

Harry swallowed, staring at the table.  
So much for a nice lunch. His fingers tightened on the cutlery.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," Harry repeated. "You spend so long building defences as I have, then they're not so easy to lower."

"You built your fences mistakenly," Riddle murmured, and he could feel the man's eyes burning into his forehead. "Fences keep people out yes, but they also keep things in, and I think that might be part the problem here? It is, or so I've gathered, your own mind you're afraid of, and not an external force?"

"It's complicated."

"Then explain it to me."

Harry's jaw clenched in frustration. He hadn't slept last night either, and how could he talk about it without just seeming like the biggest freak in the world? He wasn't a freak. He was normal! He was...he just, had abnormal circumstances.

"I...I feel the things he does. Sometimes. There's a connection between our minds. Mine and...Voldemort's. It's how I can understand him so well."

"I thought it might be something like that."

Harry's eyes widened and his head snapped up at that.  
"What? But-how-is there-?"

"It's extremely rare, but it's not unheard of. I've heard of someone else with the same...issue, and they're functioning with it just fine."

"Who?"

"Client confidentiality..."

"Oh. Right. Yeah. I mean, did they...to a...killer? Not just a normal person?"

"I am not at liberty to say. Apologies."

"Right," Harry mumbled. He felt better though - he wasn't the only one, he wasn't a complete freak! Just an unusual case!

"Did they...you said they were fine? And they weren't the killer?"  
He hated the hope in his voice, he felt so pathetic.

"I'm offended you think I would so clearly look into the mind of a killer and let them walk."

"Riddle!" Harry bit out, frustrated, and Tom sighed, before reaching over, squeezing his hand gently.

"They were better than fine, I promise."

Then he'd pulled back, thumb dragging absently across his pulse point and vein, as he went back to his food as if nothing had happened and no progress had been made.

Harry was oddly grateful for that. Opening up would still be hard, very hard, and he wasn't liable to let Riddle poke around too much or too fast, but...he didn't know.

It was something to think about.

"Why did you get into psychiatry?" he asked, instead.

"I find the human mind fascinating," Tom said. "Most particularly, those minds that in some way could be considered abnormal, unique, and different from the herd. I've always found damage to be more interesting than health."

"Surely that would be counterproductive to actually encouraging them to heal?" Harry returned, raising his brows. "We're not your lab specimens, you know, for your amusement."

"Of course not, but helping someone back onto their feet doesn't negate the damage, the experience - it just allows open wounds or infected cuts in the mind to heal over to scars."

"And scars fascinate you? Most people would call them ugly."

"I find them to be a sign of strength. A person with no scars hasn't lived, and a person with many scars is strong for having survived a greater intensity of life and still found the courage to keep walking. Should I assume you more adhere to the view of scars being ugly?"

"Scars are a sign of mistakes. You can live, but if you're good enough you won't get any significant scars, you'll successfully avoid them," Harry said. He'd never thought of it in Riddle's way before. "Scars are signs of pain, and hurt, and everything that's gone wrong and all the crap in the world, so yeah, I think suffering is ugly."

"And happiness is, thus, beautiful?" Tom clarified.

"Yes."

"In that sense one could assume you equate beauty with innocence too, for it is only the fully innocent - and not necessarily the pure of heart either by that definition- who remain unsuffering and untouched by the world. Notably, perhaps a few numbers of very small children because by that admission everyone else would hold some scar or guilt and would, thus, be ugly."

"What? No," Harry protested. "I just meant, well, someone who commits evil can't be beautiful, can they?"

"And what of being a victim of evil? Would someone who had scars from abuse, for example, not be considered beautiful in your eyes?"

"Of course they would, that's awful and not true in the slightest, scars don't work that way - I just meant -" Harry's jaw worked with frustration. "I just meant-"  
Riddle was silent, and Harry cursed him for not offering an answer or better phrasing he could agree with, instead just watching him as he struggled to clarify himself. "I didn't mean them! Scars are ugly, but that doesn't mean the people who carry them are."

"And what of happy murderers? If happiness is beautiful?"

Harry scowled at the table.

"Murder isn't beautiful."

"And yet, as a whole humanity is endlessly fascinated with it, and the distorted glory of dark minds, and the confrontation with death involved wherein. How exactly do you believe criminology became a topic for study?"

"I'm sorry, are you trying to convince me murder is beautiful? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so you can't tell me murder is beautiful, and what the hell anyway? I mean, yeah, it's beautiful - it's awesome - that people with scars have survived and are still here, good for them, they're fantastic but - but that doesn't mean -it doesn't mean -"

Riddle was scrambling his head.

"I'm trying to indicate to you that your worldview is causing you unease, because you have conflicting sets of criteria," the other murmured, after a moment. "It is interesting that you said 'I didn't mean_ them_.' You hold the world to a double standard where things you would forgive others for and would cry in outrage over, such as that a person with scars, be they physical or mental, cannot be beautiful when you can acknowledge them simultaneously as a sign of strength...and yet, you still say the words, which suggests to me that when you make that judgment you are not thinking of the world as a whole, of the ideas of damage and scars as beautiful, strong and powerful in their own right, but only in content with yourself. You find your own damage and scars and mind repulsive."

Harry opened his mouth to retort against that, furiously, only for it to dry up and for no words to come out.

"I, so what if I don't like my own mind? You know I don't, I don't like the stuff in it when he intrudes. It's messed up. Unless you're going to tell me that feeling like I'm a murderer whenever I step on one of his crime scenes is fucking beautiful?"

"And the fact that you're linked to this man and can emphasise with him, unwillingly, makes you...?"

Harry's teeth gritted, and when the hell had this turned into psychoanalysis again?! Sure, he wanted...well, needed rather than wanted, some help, but...bloody hell!

"It makes it my business, not yours," he muttered, swallowing the last of his venison. "Do you bribe all your clients with lunch?"

"Just the ones who look like they would appreciate a decent meal. Others get a rubix cube, or a pen or paper or whichever I think would aid them most. I've found a lot of people find it easier to have a talk if they have something else to concentrate on or do with their hands, to some extent," Riddle said, eyes gleaming with a mild amusement.

"...are you saying I look starved?"

"You may prefer to think of it as I like your company if it makes you feel less self conscious," the psychiatrist smirked. Harry glared.

"And you accuse me of being rude-" There was a knock at the door, and Riddle's eyes moved over. He took another sip of his wine, before standing.

"Excuse me a moment."

He went to the door, stopping when it opened before he reached it, and Ron burst in, impatiently. Harry noted Riddle's eyes darken, just slightly.

Impolite to burst in? The man did seem to have a thing about proper manners.

"Sorry," Ron shot aside to Riddle, a little dismissively, his eyes fixing on Harry. "Scrimgeour sent me, we've been looking everywhere for you. There's been another murder. He's asking for you to come."

* * *

_A/N: You know I'm feeling shiny fic syndrome when I'm consistently updating my least popular fic so quickly, haha. Well, shiny fic syndrome and Hannibal withdrawal. What can you do. You guys are subject to my whims and obsessions. Muhahaha. _

_Special thank you to all of those of you who reviewed, nice to know there are actually people reading this, and I hope you enjoyed the update :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Harry stared at Ron for several long seconds.

"Scrimgeour has other recruits," he stated, a horrible feeling twisting in his stomach. But his boss had one particular crime scene that he always insisted on him seeing. Voldemort's. "Why does he need me? I'm supposed to be on a break from active duty."

He glanced at Tom, and he didn't even know what he was looking for - some comment that he wasn't allowed to go, to bail him out of this, 'Psychiatrist's orders?' Surely, if Tom was his therapist which apparently he was whether Harry himself bloody well agreed with it or not, he should be saying something and not getting him caught up in this damn crime scene?

It clearly wasn't helping his mental health, was it?

He could feel a sick thrill of fear-anticipation in his gut, and hated the fact it wasn't solely disgust. He swallowed, thickly, his breathing already just a tad heavier than before.

His gaze darted back to Ron as the redhead replied, and he could feel Riddle's eyes resting on him in turn.

"It's - we think it's one of Voldemort's."  
Oh god, he knew it. He scrubbed a hand across his face, but wouldn't allow himself further reaction.

His hands didn't shake.

For fuck's sake, maybe they would let him out of it if they could see his hands shake, and the cracks around the edges.

"There are other agents," he repeated.

"Harry, come on," Ron said. "You know you're the best we had. Scrimgeour asked for you-"

"Scrimgeour also put me on fucking psyche-evaluation with him," Harry hissed, jerking his head at Tom, eyes wild. Something must have changed. Or maybe he was just convenient. He didn't know. He sucked in a sharp breath.

But people were dying. Innocent people. He didn't want to go - he did want to go - but he didn't. He definitely didn't.

"Can't you just take pictures and show me?" he continued, almost mumbling out the words. "You know...you know it's not as, uh, bad then..."

"I'm just the messenger," Ron said, sympathetically - and god, he hated the pity in his best friend's eyes. He didn't want pity! Pity wouldn't stop his slippery precipice from crumbling beneath his feet. He wouldn't be looking at the abyss anymore then, he'd be tumbling straight into its waiting mouth to be devoured and consumed. "You'd have to talk to Scrimgeour."

He glanced at Tom again, and refused to acknowledge the silent, screaming, hidden desperation in his own eyes.

"I'll be with you every step of the way, Harry. I'll help you," Riddle murmured, pressing a cool hand to his shoulder.

That wasn't the response he was bloody well looking for!

He wanted to go back to awkward psychological conversations and lunch, it was better than this, better than the way the walls were closing in on him and Voldemort and the looming crime scene and -

"Hey, hey, easy," Riddle's hands moved to cup his jaw, steadying him. "Just breathe, okay? Follow my breathing pattern, it's alright."

He jerked his head away, heart skittering through his chest, smiling tightly.  
"Course it is, I mean, just another fucking dead body," he said, forcing his tone to something dry.  
He wasn't broken. He wasn't too messed up by this. He wasn't shattering - he wasn't! He wasn't some trembling coward who felt like he might throw up or pass out at the thought of doing his damn job, he was a Gryffindor, he was a - he was a Honey Badger and not a frightened little sparrow in need of something bigger to protect him.

He straightened his posture, jutting his chin up.  
"Let's go then."

* * *

Tom Riddle stared at the crime scene with a concealed fury and ice in his veins.

Copy cat. Someone had the audacity to try and copycat him. Him! He, who was so above petty crime that they couldn't even hope to compare and it was so sloppily done too...

It was appalling work. They missed the entire point.  
They had some of the aspects down, but it was like looking at a parody, or a terrible movie adaptation. It certainly didn't do him justice.

More so, they thought they could infringe on his territory, pervert and appropriate his name and reputation...for this?

They said that imitation was the highest form of flattery, but this was like a toddler trying to paint the mona lisa with broken crayons.

It was all wrong.

Perhaps to an outsider it might seem like one of his, with the victim pinned and splayed - whilst he had no need to stick to an MO, it was useful in making them underestimate him - the details screamed out the differences. Besides, Harry would be able to tell in seconds if it was him, or not, with the gifts he left the boy.

His eyes moved to Harry now, his only solace and point of sanctuary in this crime. He didn't commit crimes, he created art and this was a crime. It was disgusting.

He saw Harry's brow furrow, even as the rest of the Aurors scurried about the scene like rats.

"It's a copycat," the boy said, and everyone glanced at him.

"What?" someone asked.

"A copycat." Harry seemed far calmer now, now that he knew he wasn't about to have his emotions played with and was just able to keep himself distance - and Tom immediately had the intense desire to watch the boy watch him at one of his own crime scenes. It would be delicious. He'd have to orchestrate something to make up for this awful travesty.

Of course, he'd known before they arrived that it wouldn't be his, but he hadn't expected it to be this...bad.

"How do you know?" Robards demanded, and wasn't that an idiotic question? It was painfully obvious. Even if they apparently couldn't see the magnificent precision and beauty in his kills, they should have at least had the brain capacity to have noticed Harry's reaction - or lack thereof - to the scene as an indicator.

"It doesn't, uh, feel like him," Harry muttered. "And it's a very bad copy."  
Exactly. There was a special hell for the bastard who'd butchered his work.

"It's identical to one of Voldemort's scenes!" Dawlish protested.

"No, it's not though," Harry said, voice growing louder "Voldemort...in some very strange way, respects his victims. This copycat doesn't - they respect Voldemort. All of the focus is on trying to make the scene look as much like one of Voldemort's scenes as possible...from the type of butterfly, it's one of those red ones with the spots that look like eyes..." Harry trailed off, looking around him. None of the Aurors responded.

This was painful.

"Mimicking a bigger, more dangerous predator," he finished, causing Harry to look at him. "Our copycat is trying to communicate with Voldemort."

"Exactly!" Harry exclaimed.

"He's a fan?" Weasley's brow furrowed. "Great, the bastard has followers now. Just fantastic. It's going to be like a cult of creepy little psychos."

"If he's a fan, he's not one Voldemort would like though," Harry said. "At least not entirely. Not enough attention on the victim. Voldemort is all about the victim, and their death, and everything their death represents from the methodology to the positioning to the symbolism of the butterfly. Hell," Harry's voice wavered a little. "Even what the victim looks like sometimes."

"You keep suggesting Voldemort cares for the victim."

"Cares if probably the wrong word," Harry corrected. "He's more...you know you get those people who thank a deer when they kill it? For the sacrifice? It's like that. He's the god and they're the sacrifices at his alter, his purification, his cleansing and destructive plague if you want to get biblical about it."

"What a bloody narcissist," Robards muttered.

"I think we're missing the point," Scrimgeour said, tightly. "What's our copycat trying to say to Voldemort?"

He took a silent step forward, gliding his way across the blood lsplattered across the floor, eyeing the body splayed across the bed with a blank expression, soaking the white duvet scarlet. The butterfly was there, pinned, and he stepped forwards, gently pulling the pin out and capturing it in his hands.

"Oi-oi, that's evidence!" Dawlish yelled at him. He barely refrained from shooting the man a withering look.

"Your team has already taken photos and you have pensieve memories. Unless you were planning to keep the creature struggling there for your amusement I see no issue unpinning it? Maybe you think it's going to fly away?" There was the barest trace of mockery in his tone, skulking beneath politeness.

He ran the pad across his thumb over a delicate wing as it twitched in his hands, and tried not to smile. Still a rush, to have a creature so free in his grasp...and yet, such a tragedy simultaneously.

"He could just be trying to pay respect and homage," Harry murmured, clearly more lost in his own thoughts, eyes moving across the scene. "Perhaps he or she feels in some way indebted to Voldemort? The killer's gone to great lengths to research the man and emulate him, even if they didn't get everything right. I mean...they wouldn't necessarily know his motivations and feelings, just their own interpretation of what a crime scene looks like or something. Maybe, I don't know, maybe Voldemort helped them out in some way."

A previous client? How would they have found out who he was? No, it couldn't be that. They would have contacted him more directly, surely?

"Voldemort doesn't help people."

"He kills people he considers vile and a waste to society and transforms them to something he finds beautiful," Harry snapped, a sharp edge to his tone now, irritation in his eyes, a gorgeous defensiveness almost. "In his mind he helps people. In his mind he makes the world a better place by disposing of the trash...among other things, of course."

He should visit his own scenes more often, Harry made up the sloppiness of this copycat.  
Almost.

Harry flattered him far more successfully than this killer, this vermin that crawled at his feet like a child begging for attention. It would have been sweet, if not for their lack of respect for their materials and for death itself.

Death wasn't solely a mean to an end, it was an end within itself, forever, transposed, singular and universal like a double exposure of symbolism and conclusion.

But maybe he could use this copycat, nonetheless, once he figured out who it was.

Before the Aurors, preferably.

Some of the Aurors still looked sceptical - not quite disdainful of Harry's talents or disrespectful, but they didn't understand.

"I would agree, Harry," he said, glancing over at the boy. "From the photos you showed me, this isn't precise enough for Voldemort. Actually, he'd probably find it horribly offensive to his tastes."

"Why do you say that?" Proudfoot asked curiously.

Harry looked about as frustrated with all of this as he felt. However much the boy hated his ability to empathize, that didn't mean it wasn't alienating for him when other people consistently failed to wrap their head around the same concept, especially when it was so vivid in message to both of them.

Proudfoot seemingly picked up on it, and continued defensively.  
"Well, you make him sound like a narcissist who thinks he's god! Surely he'd be flattered if he knew that someone was trying to be him?"

"When Lucifer tried to play God, or got too proud, God kicked him out of heaven," he returned, not quite coolly. "There can only be one Voldemort...to his mind, and this killer isn't him. He violates Voldemort's code."

"Voldemort has a code? Harry, you said he didn't care about morals-" Weasley's brow furrowed.

"It's not a moral code," Harry said. "But everyone has things they value, in some sense or another, and if anything else Voldemort respects power - be that his own power, or the power in death or whatever else. Riddle's right, Voldemort would find this disrespectful."

"So, theoretically," Dawlish stated. "We could just reveal the identity of who this killer is in the papers and Voldemort would take care of it for us, or even display the crime scene photos, and Voldemort would hunt the bastard down."

They all stared at him, and the Auror shifted uncomfortably.

"I suppose it's a possibility," Scrimgeour replied stiffly. "But we do not encourage such things."

Harry was still walking around the crime scene, studying it.

"Unless of course we found the copycat first and used him as bait," the boy murmured. "Two birds, one stone...though I doubt Voldemort would be so stupid as to fall for it. You already know I think he's probably a highly intelligent man, and a powerful wizard. No, the issue here is what they're trying to tell Voldemort. Is it just 'I'm a fan' or is it something more?"

It was something more. He'd already figured that out, but it did little to soothe the offense.

His eyes moved over the butterfly in his hands.

"Doctor Riddle, what do you think?" Scrimgeour asked.

"I think you should be asking Mr Potter that," he murmured, causing Harry's eyes to snap to him.

"What? Oh for god's sake, stop reading into everything I do."

Well, Harry read into everything he did, he was just more conscious in his performance.

"You have an idea though, don't you?" he returned.

"It's not even a proper idea, it's just...I said earlier that they could be paying respect to Voldemort through this, or trying to. Homage. But that would indicate he helped them earlier, but it...the butterfly...can I see it?"

Harry came over to him, fingers slipping over his as he carefully cupped the creature in his own hands.

"Yeah. Eye spots. Er, like Riddle said, they're used to come across as a more dangerous predator to try and reflect attackers away, that could either suggest that he thinks Voldemort is the bigger predator who he is mimicking with his set up, in which case there would be an indication that the killer is seeking protection from something. But, well, I've been researching butterflies ever since they first started appearing, and they're also used for...mate recognition. Like with peacocks, for example, this whole scene is just screaming 'look at me.' And they took the heart." Harry glanced at him. "Stealing a heart."

"Wait, what, you're saying this killer's in love with Voldemort?"

"They're a very intense fan, but yes. In some manner. They want to impress him, and, well...frankly...you know when a kid mimics the way someone they really respect?"

"You think he's asking for mentoring," Tom concluded.

"Possibly."

"He?" Scrimgeour leapt on the pronoun. "What makes you think it's a he?"

"Voldemort largely goes for male victims," Harry shrugged. "He'll attack females sometimes, but he's got a generally masculine preoccupation. Not that he won't switch, but his preference is men."

"Planning to go into protective custody?" he asked, causing Harry to stare at him in surprise.

"What?"

"Well, Voldemort's mentoring you and got his attention on you at the moment. You're competition," Tom continued.

Harry's eyes widened.  
"Shit."

The boy looked sick all over again, so he stepped forward, rather satisfied by the effect of his suggestion, even if he meant them as a rightful warning too, steering Harry towards the exit.  
"I'll presume you have everything you need from my client now, Mr Scrimgeour..."

* * *

**A/N: Blah Plot chapter. I prefer writing their sessions, nonetheless, what do you think? ;) Thank you for your reviews, I hope you enjoyed this one just as much.**

PS: Anon, you know which one you are, ordering me what to write is just making me want to write this one more :) Though I find it hilarious that you bother to review every chapter just to tell me not to write this story. You love it really :P


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Tom watched as Harry paced around the room. He'd have to leave the boy soon to deal with some of his other clients, but, for now, he was content to observe.

He was worrying his bottom lip as he thought, pink-red mouth against white teeth, pulling at the softness, leaving behind the slightest indents that fade like the tines of a fork in meat.

"What are you thinking?" he interjected, quietly, after some time. Harry's eyes unglazed, focused - on him.

"How would the killer be certain that Voldemort would get his message? Regardless of debate about the content of the message itself it's useless if he wasn't sure Voldemort would receive it."

"And so?" he prompted, internally delighted that Harry was already starting to be so receptive to his presence and intrusion - perhaps not to his innermost thoughts yet, but his processes nonetheless.

"He would have had to have some way of knowing Voldemort would get it, or at least of tracking his crime. That suggests a connection to the Aurors, or at least the Ministry."

Clever boy.  
He already had his suspicions now on the identity of the copycat, but...well. Why not indulge Harry and watch his mind work around the puzzle? It was delicious.

"A valid conclusion," he praised.

"But that still couldn't make him certain Voldemort would get the message, unless he knows something that we don't."

Interesting point that, and the only aspect he was still musing over himself in this whole scenario. He once again had his suspicions though.

"Leap of faith? He clearly doesn't have Voldemort's precision, and so it would not be unusual for him not to have planned this down to the small details," he suggested.

"No," Harry's brow furrowed. "He would want to make sure. He wouldn't just put it down to faith and chance, he's gone to an extreme amount of effort to make contact, he wouldn't let it go to waste."

He said nothing, and Harry continued pacing in his small office space. He himself was sat down neatly on the only chair, easily able to ignore the crime scene photos tacked around him.

"He knows who Voldemort is? If he did, then he would have contacted him directly," Harry murmured, to himself. "This doesn't make any sense!"

"Perhaps you're not looking at all the factors," he suggested. Harry shot him a glance.

"Do you know something I don't?"

"Most likely," Tom smirked, gently. "Did you know that in human behaviour there is this occurrence called inattention blindness? We can't perceive large unexpected shifts in our overall field of vision when we are concentrating on certain facts?"

"Don't distract me, seriously - oh. Other factors. Not just Voldemort. I'm focusing too much on Voldemort and on the crime scene..." the boy was pacing more frustratedly now, hands tugging through his hair. "Factors," he muttered, under his breath. "Other factors. Possible target. Competition."

"To quote Doctor Who; a door once opened can be stepped through in either direction," he offered.

Harry came to an abrupt halt, so still that he was almost quivering on the spot.

"If he knows I can feel stuff from Voldemort, then he might assume Voldemort can get stuff off of me. The killer would have to be high up in the Ministry or hell, in this department for that, to know about, uh, me...or at least have connections therein." Harry looked at him again, more closely this time. "Do you have a thing against just telling me the answer or what you're thinking?"

"You know my methods. I help people help themselves." Something flicked in the other's gaze. "What?"

"What if one of Voldemort's victims was someone who caused trouble for this killer? Inadvertent help." He suspected that wasn't all on Harry's mind though, in that remarkable mind that understood him so well. Clever, clever boy.

"Perhaps. It's worth exploring the previous victimology for a link."  
He cast a Tempus Charm to check the time, before letting the numbers vanish.

"You heading off?" Harry asked.

"I have another client. You can contact me if anything comes up."

"Right. Yeah. I'm fine anyway."

"Of course. I'll meet you for dinner."  
He made his way out and disapparated, to the sound of Harry protesting that he didn't need to be coddled and fed like a child.

* * *

Harry continued to pace his small office space, eyes fluttering over crime scene photos, trying not to look at them too closely now.

As if he needed to, when the scenes seemed scarred on his mind either way.  
Nonetheless, he felt...he wanted to say that he felt better that it hadn't been Voldemort, that he'd spared the ensnaring emotions which dragged him closer to darkness and swallowed him from every side with the softest of shadowy caresses.

On the same time, it was wrong to say he was disappointed, it was sick, but...he didn't know.  
Sometimes, it felt like feeling Voldemort's emotions was the only time he felt happy nowadays.

God, maybe he really did need professional help.

He didn't know how long he worked for, wearing out the floorboards he was working on, growing increasingly tired. He forewent dinner, too preoccupied with trying to figure this all out, with the hints that he'd been given, but unable to slot them into a coherent order. He tried to think of everyone in the department, but he couldn't think of a single one of them who would willingly betray him.

Was it maybe an old member of the department? Or perhaps a friend of somone who was currently working on the Voldemort case or - hell anyone who knew him, and might talk about him at home.

He didn't know.

Bt it wasn't like he had advertised his ability to see into the mind of the most notorious serial killer of their age, or whatever it was that Voldemort was.

Some people called him a rising dark lord, and there were all sorts of theories about how he was actually killing people who were against his cause, whatever his cause was, and disguising his murders as random.

Whilst Voldemort was undeniably narcissistic enough to want to be a Dark Lord, what he knew of the murders just didn't ring right. He'd already established that Voldemort murdered mostly those who he found undesirable and transformed them into a form he found more appealing, or at least to ensure they served a greater purpose.

He didn't know. None of this really made sense to him, it still felt like there was something he was missing.

Alastor Moody? He couldn't imagine him giving anything away. Ron would never willingly talk about his crap, but might have blurted something out...same with many of his colleagues actually, if they didn't consider the person they were talking to a threat.

Thicknesse was a possibility, but he didn't know the man well enough, and the man didn't know him, though he supposed the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement may still be privy to such information.

Scrimgeour wouldn't say anything.

He couldn't exactly interrogate his whole department without raising further suspicion.

He frowned, rubbing at the headache he could feel building between his temples, and kept pacing, trying to connect the dots.

It was easy to get into Voldemort's head, the man grabbed him in a chokehold and forced him to see his perspective, but...

No. He couldn't.  
He had the thoughts of one murderer in his head already, he didn't need another.

* * *

Tom stared at his client with a carefully neutral expression on his face.

Dolores Umbridge was sitting on his couch.

He'd only had three sessions with her so far, and he believed from the first that she'd only sought help because apparently he was 'in'. Apparently it was growing fashionable among the higher end purebloods to see him, and other's he believed came out of some stupid fantasy or crush. She believed coming to these meetings would make her seem 'deeper'.

She was vile. Very sour inside, despite her 'cuddly' exterior as he peered at him with big eyes that she forced to well up with crocodile tears.

People gave him their heart and soul in these sessions, she was an insult to his profession, and he'd already been insulted once today.

"It's just so difficult," she sniffed. "The world is so...messy. It's disgusting. Sometimes I feel like I can't even leave my front door. Is it so horrible that I need order?"

"The desire for order and structure in one's life is a very normal desire," he replied. "However, being too rigid is...unbeneficial. It leads to unnecessary stress and anxiety, and hinders the even more human ability to adapt."

He would have been more sympathetic to her world view, he was sure, if she wasn't one of the revolting specimens that he would commonly destroy.

She didn't seem to listen to a word he said.  
"I stand firm to my principles, Dr. Riddle, and I do not understand why everyone seems to vilify me for doing so. I do not believe it is my fault that their opinion is wrong."

"You believe they deserve to be punished for their worldview?"

"When they bring...filth into the world, yes, yes I do."

"Would you apply this to yourself?"

"Excuse me?" her voice turned honeyed and sweet, and he watched her calmly.

"You said you do not understand people who vilify you, and yet you believe that those who hold a different opinion from you should be punished."

"Those who hold the wrong opinion. Oh, you can preach a more subjective world to the view, of course, but everyone knows that there is a right way to be and a wrong way to be."

She sniffed again. He said nothing. She glanced at him.

"Don't you agree?"  
After a moment, he smiled, leaning forward.

"I think I have just the solution to help you, Dolores. Would you like to follow me to the other room?"

* * *

Harry was sitting at his desk now.  
Everyone else had long since gone home to their families or lovers or pets, but he was still staring at crime scene photos and sifting through ministry files.

He was looking through Voldemort's victims so far - or at least the ones they knew about.  
It was an odd mix, somewhere between those he killed solely for what were listed as the 'Butterfly crimes', which he committed because he believed they were a taint on the world - and then there were others which they were less sure about. Maybe they'd done something to irritate the man, but they weren't caught up in any particular scandal that they were aware of.

His parents hadn't done anything wrong.

He rubbed his eyes, exhausted, the offices silent around him, with the only light emerging from his cubicle.

He didn't know how late it was anymore, and his stomach was vaguely growling in hopes of dinner and something to drink.

He couldn't relax enough to do so, and his home in all of its quiet emptiness seemed equally daunting. Of course, it was extremely well warded, and he'd been living with the threat of Voldemort for a long time now (though the 'blood wards' had protected him before) but nonetheless.

If he was expected to be anywhere, it would be there, and he didn't know.

He felt like a pathetic, terrified child being freaked out at the thought of being alone in his own home, but Riddle's words that he was competition, a potential victim...

His hand still wasn't shaking, and for a second the fleeting thought that he would kill anyone who came after him crossed his mind. The next, the bad taste in his mouth lingered.

He turned another page on his notes, and absently considered making himself a coffee.

He felt so close to something, some revelation, some scrap of information that would connect all of this...he just couldn't think of it.

He bit his lip, and the next second he was pacing again.

* * *

Harry hadn't gone home.

The lights weren't on - and of course he knew where his horcrux lived. He just couldn't enter, on his own volition...the fidelius prevented that.

But the lack of '12' in a row of streets was rather conspicuous.  
He believed Harry inherited the Black House after his Godfather's timely demise in his fifth year, and had promptly moved out of his Aunt and Uncle's home.

That was one good thing, at least - as was the fact that they had moved and Harry had kept no contact with the pigs.

The only thing that had stopped him from immediately killing them was because he didn't want to take the delicious joy of vengeance away from Harry, when he did it. Because he would, eventually. He'd personally ensure it.

His first, unwelcome, thought was that the boy had managed to find trouble again, but he soon pinpointed him to still being working at the office.

No doubt hadn't had dinner either.

Harry really did need to learn to take better care of himself. Maybe a desire for passive-suicide? An easy escape he wouldn't admit to himself? Or the product of sustained neglect. Harry was fast asleep at his desk, his normally closed face open and vulnerable, if a little pinched with troubled slumber.

It was just as well, he'd had a rather nice lunch idea for tomorrow, that he needed time to prepare properly.

He was thinking a nice pate, with some red wine this time - Chianti, perhaps. It would help Harry relax. Alcohol had that effect on people, and had seemed to do the trick at lunch.

Dinner wouldn't have been so special, leftovers from lunch, thrown in with some rice, most likely...assuming he was cooking, that was.

He wandered over, letting his fingers slip gently into the Harry's hair, settling when he only shifted at the touch. The reassuring vibes he was sending the boy probably helped, nails scraping slightly across the scalp before smoothing down along his neck, feeling the other's pulse flutter beneath his fingers.

It would be so easy to stop, especially right now.

He wetted his lips, leaning down, studying carefully, the smell of detergent crisp in his nose, along with fainter scents of rain and something earthy.

He could snap right now, he could ensure Harry remained unconscious even, and take him somewhere else and watch him wake up in panic, restrain him - anything. The possibilities hovered deliciously on the edge of his thoughts, flickering through his eyes.

His fingers brushed Harry's throat, the smooth tan throat, across the adam's apple, before finally growing firm on the boy's shoulder.

"Harry," he said, calmly, giving him the smallest of shake. The Auror immediately jolted awake, nearly falling out of his chair as he scrambled for his wand. He raised his brows as the boy pretty much toppled into a haphazard heap at his feet, before reaching down and dragging him up, keeping a hand steadily on the other's waist even when he was standing, fingers spreading across his ribs and hip.

"I-fuck-Riddle. I...fell asleep?" the sleep haze faded quickly, rather too quickly for his liking, alertness leaping in behind heavy leashes. "Oh, bloody hell, I fell asleep. Sorry. Wait...what are you doing here?"

He looked around his office, before down at Tom's hand, cheeks flushing a little as he took a step back.

"We were going to have dinner. My work overran...as did yours apparently."

Harry rubbed his eyes, and somehow the boy looked younger than ever doing so. The weight had already settled back on his shoulders, eyes pinching with stress and a haunted shadow.

"Right. Yeah. I was onto something?"

"Oh?"

"Mmm. Yeah, the code-" he yawned, muttering another apology. Really, when was the last time Harry had slept properly? He looked exhausted. "He was trying to get a message to Voldemort, yeah? So...what if we respond? You said competition...what if we rile him up? Make him slip up, break pattern."

"Come after you and try and kill you."

"Hazard of the bloody occupation. Voldemort tried to kill me too. Trying. Whichever it is."

"If Voldemort was trying to kill you, you'd be dead."

"Your faith in me is inspiring," the boy snapped, glancing at his documents, gathering them up. Tom watched him for a moment, eyes skimming over the notes, observations and victims Harry had been cataloguing.

"Come on. I'll take you home," he said, finally. "Maybe a night's sleep will give you a fresh perspective."

* * *

_A/N: I have not yet seen the new episode of Hannibal so please don't give me any spoilers, from one fan to another, if you watch the show. I will cry if you do. So yeah..._

On other matters, I hope you enjoyed the update :) Thank you for the reviews!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

Tom could feel a sense of twisted hope building in his chest as they strode up the street to Harry's house, in Islington.

If Harry invited him in now, he could come and go as he pleased in the warded home, which was undeniably a pleasing thought.

Instead, he was disappointed as Harry paused just outside, turning to him.  
"We'll do dinner another time, or something," the boy said.

"I can cook you something now," he returned, with raised brows. "It's no trouble. Or don't you trust me in your house?"

Harry hesitated, before giving an awkward shrug.  
"I don't really trust anyone with my home. Never leads to anything good. Maybe another time."

He nodded - it would be too suspicious if he pushed the matter - giving Harry another smile.

"Another time," he agreed, pleasantly. "And don't worry, I understand completely. If Voldemort was targeting me, I would be careful about my security detail too."

Harry gave him a faint smile in response.

The urge that he should have just stolen him when he was sleeping only grew in his chest, though he focused on not letting that particular thought show on his face.

He had to think the long-term gratification here; the question of freedom, of the butterfly. He could take Harry, but then he'd never get to see what the other would become in the wild with his gentle prodding.

No, he clamped down on the urge, letting his hand slip off his wand in his pocket as he clapped Harry's shoulder, as Harry mumbled an agreement to his words.

"You have my number if you need me," he said.

"I won't need you," Harry replied; that stubbornness against Psychiatrists showing through again.

He simply gave him another indulgent smile, because he knew it wouldn't stay like that forever. Harry would need him before the end, he'd make sure of it.

"Just in case," he returned. "Goodnight."

"Yeah, night."  
Harry didn't move to enter his home, and he blinked.

"What? Are you waiting for me to leave before? The missing number 12 of your location isn't as inconspicuous as you seem to think it is."

"Why aren't you leaving yet?"

"You have dangerous killer after you, and all sorts of monsters can walk the streets at night. I said I'd get you home safely, I'm merely keeping my word."

Harry snorted.

"What happened to me being a Honey Badger and not a fragile, broken little sparrow? I can look after myself," the boy stated adamantly, chin jutting up in an increasingly familiar defiance.

His fingers twitched in his pockets to reach out, to smudge that expression away, or maybe to capture it, he didn't know. For a second, he fantasised the expression of surprise and shock on Harry's face if he did ever act on his impulses.

Next time, he really wasn't going to be so kind as to wake him so soon.

"Being independent doesn't mean having no one to depend on," he returned.

Harry's brow furrowed at that comment, even as he pulled his jacket tighter around himself on the chilly street.

"And you think you're someone I can depend on? We've barely know each other."

Oh, if only he knew...

"I think I'm someone you can grab onto and use to haul yourself out of dark places when the things you see and feel put you there," he said. "I'm not one of your friends, you do not have to feel concerned about burdening me, and due to my lifestyle I do have an understanding of what you're going through."

"I don't think studying criminology and psychology and occasionally visiting crime scenes quite compares to literally getting dragged into a murderer's head being forced to feel his sadism from a first person perspective," Harry muttered, jaw tightening a little.

He hummed, and kept the smirk off his lips.

"Perhaps not, but I hardly think you intend to use Voldemort as a your crutch?"

Harry laughed at that, seeming to relax a bit, the tension easing from his shoulder, as he shook his head.

"Probably not. He'd much rather see me fall then ever give me a helping hand...or at least, a helping hand which doesn't include helping me become another version of him."  
The troubled shadow to his eyes were back.

"You believe that is what Voldemort desires? To corrupt you?"

"I don't know. But butterflies are a sign of metamorphosis, aren't they? You said so yourself."

He was quiet for a moment, and he didn't know if Harry realised the way he was peering up at him with those exquisitely expressive green eyes. He wondered how Harry would look at him if he knew who he was, if he was slowly bleeding out in his arms - pale, lips parted with shuddering breaths, struggling a little in his arms like the butterflies did, twitching in an effort to avoid being pinned.

"That's a concern for another day, or at least once you've had some rest," he said, keeping himself back from encroaching on the smaller man's space. At least for now.

"Do you think he could succeed?" Harry's questioned stopped him as he was leaving, and he glanced back.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think Voldemort could succeed? Make me like him?"

"I believe everyone has the potential to be a killer, under the right circumstances," he replied - even if that wasn't the reassurance Harry was looking for.

Harry nodded, before turning away.

* * *

Barty Crouch Junior was hidden near Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

It had taken a while, but he managed to track it down. He couldn't get in, regrettably, because of the Fidelius, and he would have attacked then and there if not for the fact Potter wasn't alone.

It wasn't that he had any qualms about involving other people, but he didn't wish to do anything to anger his lord. Lord Voldemort; such an amazing pseudonym. Flight of Death, it was just so fitting.

He longed to meet the man, to learn from him, his artistry, his vision of the world - everything!

Potter just didn't seem to understand Voldemort's magnificence, for, if he could, why would he ever strive to sabotage and catch him? He wasn't worthy of his attention.

But maybe that was the other reason he didn't lunge forward with the intent to take the Auror's heart - he did have Voldemort's attention, and so he had use yet. Besides, it would be impolite to claim his Lord's victim, at least not without checking first.

On the other hand, if Voldemort failed to kill the boy, then he could so himself, serve him and help him. Like an apprentice.

He was sure Voldemort would be a far better father than his own.

He watched as Potter and some other older bloke, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, discussed something, trying to place the - Riddle, wasn't it? The Psychiatrist.

He wondered what the bastard would have to say about his mental state, and the effect of the Dementor's on a mind.

It was all such a mess.

But he had his plan set in mind, the second Harry Potter was alone and vulnerable, and it would all facilitate his aims perfectly.

They would never catch him; a dead man wasn't on Ministry radars.  
He watched as the two disappeared, and contemplated if Riddle wasn't someone he could use to lure Potter to him.

It was all so conflicting, but he knew he wanted the unworthy little brat to suffer for the insult he'd paid his Lord of death.

It was just a matter of time.

He moved back, brushing a beetle off his arm, before disapparating with a crack.

* * *

Harry was woken to the sound of an Owl tapping against his window, and scowled, flicking a hand to open it.

He was drenched in cold sweat, with the murders playing through his head all over again.

Scarlet. Vacant Eyes. Joy in his chest.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, rolling out of bed as Pig came over to him, far too hyper for this time in the morning - what time was it anyway?

His mouth felt cottony with the metallic tang of sleep, however uneasy, and his hair plastered to his forehead.

He grabbed Pig tightly in his hand - the bird was still as hyper as ever, and he felt a pang in his gut still that Ron had received the tiny owl from Sirius - to be able to get the letter off.

_You need to look at the Prophet. Now. _  
_Sorry._

There was a copy attached, presumably spelled lighter so that Pig could actually carry at it, and he pulled it towards him. For a second, all he could do was stare, utterly numb, mouth running slowly dry.

He read through the article, and it took a few tries for it to actually start making sense, before his fists clenched and the fury burned in his chest.

For fuck's sake!

He was out the door in a hurricane of fury within fifteen minutes.

* * *

Tom sat at his breakfast table, eating leisurely before he had to meet his first client for the day, the Daily Prophet spread out next to him.

His expression was blank, though the knife twirled in his hand and stabbed into his sausages rather too viciously for a picture of perfect composure.

How rude. How very, very rude.

_Boy-Who's-Going-Dark? The true story between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort_

The words flittered through his head as he read them, taking another sip of his tea.

"_Potential corruption_" "_Harry Potter doubts himself_" "_Famous Psychiatrist advocates murder_" "_Why is Tom Riddle at Harry Potter's house?" "Has the Boy Who Lived finally cracked?"_

Rita Skeeter.  
Of course.

He could have guessed that from the start.

Whilst the Daily Prophet wasn't a tabloid in the most official sense, Skeeter's vulgar, distasteful and often sensational articles were hardly appropriate to a decent paper.

He wondered how Harry was reacting over this, it certainly didn't do the boy's Golden Boy reputation any good.

Of course, it was unforgivable that she should slander him and try and draw him into a sticky scandal too...but what was to be done about it?

He didn't know why people insisted on behaving in such an unfitting manner around him recently. It was rather irritating. It was time's like these that he thought becoming a Dark Lord may have been the better idea, for no one would dare even mention his name them, yet alone speak of him in such a way.

They would tremble at his feet, and would still.

He hadn't had any cancellations so far; of course not, his clients were too dependent on his help and expertise, but his waiting list had shrunk.

He couldn't say he enjoyed being deprived in such a manner.

His real question was, however, how had she found out?

He hadn't seen her at Harry's house, where the conversation had taken place. Had she bugged the area? He knew he should have raised more wards, but at the time that would only have aroused suspicion on a predominantly muggle street, and their conversation had been innocuous.

Twisted.

Yet another person twisted his wisdom and glory.

His lips thinned, and he folded his paper up.

Of course, he couldn't outright attack her, not in the way he would so desire to. It would only raise questions as to why Voldemort would defend him - though it could be spun into a defense of Harry, but due to certain connections Harry would still know of his own, more personal rage.

His Occlumency Barriers are control were normally impeccable and unshaken even by the most violent exterior intrusions...but there was something about murder, of the sweet rush, that made his barriers drop just a fraction for the emotions to linger on the crime scenes like a graffiti artist's signature tag - just for Harry.

Perhaps, because it was his time of freedom and power, and to be so constrained in his release was to ruin the experience.

Yet, he couldn't exactly let her get away with it, could he? He had some ideas, but-

He headed for the office, and had barely stepped in before a hand was tight at his throat, a wand digging into his gut.

He met a pair of livid emerald eyes.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

* * *

_A/N: So, um, yeah. Hope you liked the chapter.  
And what can I say, Freddie Lounds and Rita Skeeter? Perfect! And now you know who the copycat is. Or do you? Muhahaha. _


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

Harry was sat in the Auror department of the Ministry, feeling like there was a large, cold stone at the pit of his gut.

He ran fingers through his hair, the other cradling his third cup of coffee of the day so far.  
He felt like such an idiot for not noticing that someone was near his house - how else could they have known Tom was there and heard their conversation?

It could have been Voldemort, or a copy cat, he was almost lucky it was just Rita bloody Skeeter.

Almost, because she was a bitch, and his life was starting to resemble his nightmares (already informed by life and a certain serial killer) even more so than it did already.

Then he really would have been screwed.

The Auror office buzzed around him, with phone calls to the Daily Prophet trying to clamp down and get a lid on this story. People were talking, but the words just swam in and out of his head like they were issued from underwater, blurred and muffled around the edges.

He could feel the looks people were giving him, uneasy glances which did absolutely nothing to make him feel better either.

It was ridiculous, but he just felt so...alone. Alienated. Even more so now. People of course did their best with his...skillset, and his unnerving ability to walk onto one of Voldemort's crime scenes and know with exacting detail the motivations and reasoning behind the murder.

He was used to being different, and frankly, after an alarming stage when he was fifteen, he saw no point whining or angsting about. It wouldn't make it better, would it?

He just wished they wouldn't doubt him so, even if he knew he couldn't criticize himself when it was so clearly doubting himself. He was in therapy for crying out loud, and most of the department had some awareness of that.

It wasn't good.  
Rita Skeeter was a trashy rag and gossip columnist, but she was an immensely popular one nonetheless. He didn't know because, despite her lies, and her often incorrect and slanderous comments, she did also sometimes hit on some rather unnerving spears of truth.

He could sense the idea in people's heads, especially as he couldn't deny his own guilt and concern about the state of his mind and sanity, and couldn't refute that he'd said the words she quoted him as saying.

All it took, sometimes, was an idea - a seed - and people were already thinking of him differently, because what if it was true? Just what if. They didn't turn against him so immediately, though some did, but most didn't, but that seed was there.

He tried to ignore it, vaguely aware of Ron's sympathetic smile, Tonks' attempt to make him feel better, and even Scrimgeour's awkward squeeze on his shoulder.

Maybe his own issues and the fragility of waking, of the blood and the emotions that gushed in the veins of his memory. He pressed his fingers together, dry, slightly tanned and calloused, as he stared at the crime scene photos crowding him from every side.

He didn't want to look anymore.  
But he had to.

He'd narrowed his victimology down to people who were linked to Department, and thus far he had the murder of the Bones' some time ago and the death of Barty Crouch. Neither of them seemed particularly viable, but most of Voldemort's kills didn't seem to be in anyway conceivably linked to his department.

Despite his access to the man's mind, he still wasn't always sure how he picked his victims. There was still something of Voldemort's methodology that seemed missing to him, though he couldn't think what it was.

Maybe the key was in the differences in the crime scenes.  
In the last two, with the copycat and with Voldemort, it had been the heart missing, with a butterfly pinned in it's place. Another time, it had been the lungs missing with the butterfly pinned on the heart with both sides gapingly empty. It often varied.

He supposed that the body parts were some twisted form of souvenir.  
He rubbed his eyes, images popping behind the lids in the darkness, smearing across his vision, lingering even when he opened his eyes again.

It couldn't be Crouch, they were all dead - with the son having died in Azkaban - but he could hardly see the copycat being Susan Bones either. He'd been at Hogwarts with her, she was lovely, kind. She wouldn't do something like this.

He supposed he could say that about everyone though.  
The only person he'd even considered capable of doing something like this was Snape, and that was just because he hated the creepy, greasy-haired git.

He suppressed a sigh, trying to think. He'd been so sure he'd find something here, but it just seemed like one dead end after another.

Time to look at the crime scenes again.

* * *

Tom studied the smaller man in front of him for a split second, brow furrowing a little.  
He didn't...smell right.

Something was wrong here. Nonetheless, he didn't hesitate before twisting in one quick movement so the Harry-look-a-like was the one pinned.

"Polyjuice is an interesting potion," he murmured, watching as those green eyes flared in panic. Still, the possibilities ran through his mind either way...someone who looked exactly like Harry, but wasn't Harry. Of course, the inconsistencies, such as the scent, was itching beneath his skin in the most irritating way. "It mimics the appearance directly, even changes the vocal cord and voice to some extent, but even our world it is extremely difficult to get an exact copy of the original, especially in the case of our I'm going to assume mutual acquaintance, Mr Potter."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Riddle," the imposter began, eyes narrowing, wand clattered on the floor so he couldn't confirm that it would not be eleven inches of Holly. "Look, I know you must have told the papers-"

"-don't test my patience." His head tilted, as he examined the man, or presumably man, considering why he would have attacked him so obviously. He, for want of confirmed pronoun, hadn't expected to get caught, that much was evident. He'd been aiming to use the advantage of Harry's appearance to overpower him, but why pin him?

Power, control. The imposter wanted to see the presumed fright in his eyes. Sadistic. A slow smile spread across his lips. Pity this con-man inadvertently found the larger predator in his scheming.

He obviously felt the need to hide his own appearance, not only for the surprise, but perhaps because he did not have the physique of someone who could walk by unnoticed and slip around as they pleased?

How interesting.  
"I think you and I should have a little chat, don't you? Why don't you step into my office?"

This was going to be fun.

* * *

"Tom?"

He paused as the voice called out from the other room - and that really was the beauty of his warding. He could hear everything from his office from here, but nothing from here could be heard from his office. Which was just as well.

He gently peeled off his bloodied gloves, ignoring the glazed, agony-filled green eyes staring up at me.

He saw no point in pushing the imposter's real identity when the Polyjuice - he was pretty sure it was Polyjuice Potion - would eventually wear off anyway. He could have so much more fun in the meanwhile.

He'd bought a bottle of the cheap aftershave Harry used - it smelt tacky too, like something that came with a picture on the bottle rather than a more refined and elegant presentation, and poured it on his victim simply to stop the jarring contrast between appearance and all the markers of wrongness.

Whilst he understood the concept of serial killers using surrogates for their golden ticket victim, the prize at the end of it all, he never really saw the point in that if the differences were so obvious that they screamed out and shattered the fantasy.

If he was going to amuse himself in such a way, then it deserved to be done properly.

That, and he'd always been fascinated to see the effects of scarring and wounds and damage caused when someone was under polyjuice.

Would the wounds transpose directly to the true form, in the same place as represented on them when under polyjuice? Would the scars change place? Would they be there at all?

From a scientific point of view, it was all very fascinating.

Nonetheless, he let the gloves drop to the side, gave his victim a pleased smile, removed his special over-robe, checked there were no blood splatters on his suit (of course not) and proceeded to the next room and to the real version of Harry after a last, appreciative glance.

The imposter may have reverted to his natural form by the time he returned, so he made sure to commit the scene to memory.

If it hadn't been Harry at his office door, the real Harry, he would definitely have pretended that he wasn't in.

He walked through the door just as the boy seemed about to leave again, looking awkward.

"Harry," he called out. The other turned, blinking with surprise, before his eyes moved to the door Tom casually shut behind him.

"Oh, sorry. Were you with a patient?"

"Just cleaning up after a session with one. Your presence is no trouble," he replied, studying the boy carefully.

Harry nodded his acknowledgement to the words, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Another reason why his imposter had been so obvious - whilst Harry could attack on necessity, and, he was certain, with utter ruthlessness and precision and boldness - the boy was an Auror.

He would never had sought out the fear in his opponent's eyes, he would have attacked before they even knew he was there. Stunned them, or something.

Tom watched him for a moment, before coming closer, letting his fingers slide and settle on the small of Harry's back.

"Come, sit down. I'll put the kettle on," he murmured. "I'm sure you've had a testing day dealing with Miss Skeeter's slander."

"I'm sorry about that," Harry said, looking up at him - sitting willingly, for once. He said nothing immediately to that, brewing some tea, before handing Harry a cup and taking his own seat.

"You feel like this is your fault?"

"Isn't it?" Harry scowled. "And your psychoanalysing me again. I told you to stop doing that."

"I also showed no intention of yielding to that demand, and will not do so now," he replied, calmly. "Why do you feel it is your fault and that you need to apologise to me?"

There was a private, darkly exquisite sort of thrill between slipping between the role of Harry's murderer and Harry's crutch and psychiatrist.

Harry's jaw clenched with frustration, and he drank in every detail, every flicker of emotion and shift of muscle and bone.

He thought using the surrogate would satiate these urges, the urge to reach out, map with fingers and mouth every twitch of that frantic, splintered mind, so linked to his own.

They just felt stronger than before.

An imposter, however well disguised, wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't real, that only Harry would do when it came as an end to this particular game.

"Well, you got dragged into the whole mess because of me," Harry muttered, "and it's making a scandal of me that Skeeter's interested in. No offence, but you were just there."

"I do have a reputation of my own, you know, which isn't solely linked to your own," he stated dryly. Harry flushed, fingers flexing, curling.

"Yeah, I know. I just - can't you just accept the bloody apology and move on?"

Tom's head tilted a little.  
"Do you perhaps feel guilty that you survived Voldemort's attack, when your parents didn't?"

"I-what? - what's that got to do with anything?" Harry demanded, shoulders stiffening.

"Survivor's guilt," Tom returned. "Could be an explanation for your hero complex and martyrdom, as well as seeming need to take all responsibility for everything onto your own shoulders."

Harry blinked, and seemed to be trying to decide if that comment offending him or not.

He refrained from smiling.

"Drink your tea, Harry. What is it that you came here for?"

* * *

Harry didn't know when exactly Tom had even in the vaguest sense become a sounding board for him. He supposed because he was sick of feeling like a freak at work, and have people either treat him like breakable china or like he was Lord Voldemort incarnated.

Bloody wizarding world, always the same in a scandal.  
It had been the same thing with the Chamber of the Secrets debacle.

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal, or, at least - well - normal with his psychiatrist had to be an oxymoron, didn't it?

If he was normal, he wouldn't even know Tom Riddle.

The old unease churned in his gut.

But Tom at least probably knew people who were more fucked-up than he was, so he had some leeway here.

"I narrowed down who the possible victim could have been," he stated, after a moment. "You know, in regards to if the copy-cat felt like he owed Voldemort something? The two people in my department, which it seems pretty likely that the copycat is linked to - would be the Bones' and the Crouch's, out of Voldemort's victims."

Tom gave a hum of acknowledgement, studying him.

"The thing is," he continued - and maybe he just came because he wanted someone to shoot his ideas at, to speak aloud, when his department was always busy and in uproar. It wasn't like Voldemort was the only psycho around, or the only issue they had to deal with.

Voldemort was merely the one he always got straddled with.

"The thing is," he repeated again, wetting his lips. "A lot of people didn't like Barty Crouch, at least as far as Dark Wizards went. He's locked up a lot of people, and accused others. It doesn't really limit the suspect pool down at all. The most obvious choice would be Crouch's son, but he died in Azkaban a good many years before Crouch was murdered."

"A dilemma indeed," Riddle murmured. "Have you checked if there have been any other Azkaban breakouts? Perhaps one which would tie with the copycat starting now, rather than later?"

"There isn't," Harry shook his head. "I already checked."

"Anyone with family in Azkaban due to to Crouch's actions?"

"Maybe I should just accuse all of pureblood wizarding society as murderers," Harry returned, dryly. A small smirk crept briefly across Tom's lips, before it was done.

Personally, he was still leaning towards drawing the killer out, because he was having shitty luck trying to find the copycat.

He was sure he would find him eventually, catch him eventually, what concerned him was how many people would have to die before then.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, setting his teacup down, before pausing.

"Do you, uh, mind that I just come in and randomly talk to you about this stuff? I mean, it's not your job or anything, am I supposed to be paying you for this time-"

Tom chuckled a little at the last statement, and he scowled a little again, only for the other to reach out, fingers curling to brush and settle on the back of his neck.

"You can come to me whenever you want or need. No office hours. I'm happy to assist you in anyway I can."

For the first time, though Tom had touched him in passing before, Harry became aware of the concentrated warmth of Riddle's fingers on his cool skin, almost tingling, almost as if - no. He gave the other a grin, pulling his neck and shoulders free from the light grasp with a casual movement, as Tom pulled his hand back immediately.

"Thank you," he said. "It's much appreciated. I'll pay you back with coffee and my charming company or something."

Tom nodded.  
"Note, our actual sessions are still very much in place, and you are still expected to attend,"  
Great. More psychoanalysis and people trying to get into his head.

Harry glared stonily and huffed.

* * *

Once Harry was gone, Tom slipped back into the other room. Harry had asked him about it, if he could see, but he'd dismissed the query easily for another time.

It was no longer Harry, bloodied, pained and frantic, on his table.  
His head tilted a little, as he took a step forward, leaning over the man, plucking the gag out easily (the comments hadn't been Harry-ish enough, they'd been dull, crazed and unuseful), his interest much more peaked now.

"My my," he purred. "Has anyone ever told you that you look just like your father?"

* * *

_A/N: End of exams! Writer is freeeeeeee! *clutches laptop, and books, and happy stuff in adoration.*_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine:

When Harry turned up for his meeting, the next afternoon, Tom wasn't there and the office space was instead in disarray.

He felt his shoulders stiffen as his eyes roved quickly around the room, mouth running dry as he took a step forward.

Papers slid and stuck under his feet as he moved carefully into the room, normally so immaculate, which now looked like a small tornado or hurricane could have swept through it and left the office in a better state.

The chair and table was upturned, the couch too with a large swipe slicing through one side of it and leaking stuffing like sofa-blood. He swallowed.

What the hell had happened here?  
Whatever it was, it didn't look good.

His wand was already instinctively in his hands in seconds.

They'd found another body that morning - Dolores Umbridge, pink staining to red, eyes wide with shock and horror and mouth twisted in horror.

He'd known immediately it was the work of Voldemort, how could he not when the second he stepped into the crime scene he was assaulted with a rush of emotions and power so intense that it almost sent him to his knees.

Hatred this time, revulsion and disgust; a sense that she was inferior in every way, filthy, nothing more than a pig.

Instead of a butterfly, there was a toad crammed where her heart should have been, trapped in by the ribcage still intact.

Her tongue, too, had been removed, and the blood was everywhere.

Some of his team had theorized it was because this was more personal, an overkill, because she was someone Voldemort knew and despised personally, and whilst Harry could understand there maybe being an element of truth to that (not that it was difficult to despise the Under-Secretary to the Ministry) it wasn't solely for that reason.

Everything Voldemort did was an overkill, and everyone he killed had done something in the killer's mind to deserve their punishment - be it transformation with the butterflies, or condemnation and damnation as here.

Umbridge, he knew, from when she was at Hogwarts, was very orderly and neat. All of her pencils had been sharpened to the same length for crying out loud!

No, this was deliberately done, just like everything Voldemort did, simply because his victim would absolutely hate the mess he'd made of her.

It was so different to the normal ones they found that, if not for the emotions, he may have argued this was the copycat or some other copycat.

Voldemort had done absolutely nothing to honour this victim, and Harry had delved distractedly into old case files and crime scene photos all over again, which he'd actually been hoping to talk to Tom about.

Now it seemed Tom wasn't here, and that something very bad had happened instead.

The books, too, which lined the walls were strewn off the shelves.

His heart hammered in his chest, as he automatically started scooping up the papers with the absent sense that Riddle really didn't seem to like his room being messy - once, Harry had dropped his napkin by the edge of his plate around the man, once he was done with it, instead of in the bin, and the man had looked about to hiss at him! He shook his head, dismissing it as an irrelevant matter, trying to think, before freezing, setting the papers down again where they had been.

Crime scene.

This was potentially a crime scene. He shouldn't touch anything, contaminate anything. Stupid! He knew that.

Well, at least the Aurors were in.

He started carefully examining the scene.

* * *

**_The Previous Night_**

Tom leaned down over the half terrified, partially defiant and other part furious form of Barty Crouch Junior, though there was something else to the man's expression now.

The supposedly-dead-Crouch's chest heaved as he strained to free himself.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, the second he could, and the gag was removed from his mouth.

"My my, such uncouth behaviour," Tom drawled. "First you insult my work, then you break into my house and now you address me in such a rude manner as if you didn't know my name already. Doctor T. M. Riddle, Psychiatrist, as it says on my door. Or did you accidentally break and enter in the wrong room because you didn't read the sound on the door?"

"Insult your work?" Crouch repeated. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never done psychiatry in my life!"

Tom couldn't quite help the small, amused smile that crossed his lips, even if it remained icy and brittle around the edges.

"I meant my other work," he said, pityingly, before shaking his head. "I suppose it's lucky that I still have use for you, junior." He leaned in closer, as the man appeared about to respond, pressing his wand to his jugular. "Here's what's going to happen..."

* * *

It didn't take long him for him to figure out the story of what had happened, even without the strange aid of Voldemort's emotions.

It had been such a long time since he'd been at a scene like this, where he suspected a crime may have been committed, rather than staring down a splayed body with a sick, alien sense of satisfaction grinding through his body, but the pointers were more than self-evident to his conclusion.

There were clear signs of a duel, with the scattered papers, and what looked like a dark exploding hex against the bookcase, causing papers to go everywhere.

Images of what could have happened, visualisations, moved through his head.

Tom Riddle, from all he'd heard, was a talented wizard - the attacker would have to be powerful too, to have a chance of beating him, even with the element of surprise. His eyes narrowed a little.

The door to the other room was blown straight off the hinges, and it was tracking through there that gave him the biggest, most unnerving hints towards events.

It seemed the copycat had got there before him, though he was utterly bewildered as to why the man would target Tom.

Was it just because he'd been seen at his house? Because of Skeeter's argument insinuating a less than professional relationship between them?

He'd theorized that the copycat didn't make blind leaps of faith, so this couldn't be right. From everything he'd seen, the copycat was intently enthusiastic, indebted to Voldemort in some manner, violently unstable and yet clearly capable of careful planning if the situation required it.

A dark, twisted Pureblood heir, perhaps, raised on a diet of control and an intricate web.

Barty Crouch Junior, really, except the fucker was dead and none of this made any sense.

Most predominantly? The fact that another psychiatrists couch and table in the room was splattered with blood.

That was about the time he immediately called the forensics team to test it.  
Then he just sat there staring at the wall. He'd never felt more terrified in his life.

"Oh god..." he heard someone say next to him. Someone in forensics.  
Words were washing in and out of his ears again, and he swallowed down bile.

He felt Robards come up next to him, and a hand clamp down on his shoulder - too rough, firm and constricting in its efforts to help. He couldn't breathe.

"Potter, go home. Drink some tea."

"I want to work this case," Harry replied, a little numbly.

"There are pictures of you being tortured across the entire wall!" his fellow Auror hissed, rounding on him, eyes flashing. "You are already in fucking therapy, you are not on the field right now without your psychiatrist validating you, and your psychiatrist is currently missing and has his blood stained all across the floor of his office. "

Polyjuice potion. That was his theory. He swallowed. He wondered who his surrogate had been, and dreaded the thought it may be Tom.

Even if the man was by some miracle alive, he had the feeling he would have to find another psychiatrist.

Maybe one wouldn't even pick him up, considering all of the risks.

It was funny, he absolutely hated his sessions with Tom, hated the feeling of being prodded and analysed, of yet another person creeping into his head...and yet, now, as he was on the risk of losing that net and just being left alone with his mind and the pictures on the wall...he really didn't want to be.

"Please," he tried, stiffly. "I need to work this case, and you are not authorised to dismiss me. Scrimgeour is.."

"Scrimgeour isn't here, and, if he was, I'm sure he'd agree with me - ou understand perfectly well why I can't allow you being here. Weasley will take you home, don't do something stupid. We will keep you informed."

"I don't need someone to walk me home," Harry snapped, feeling on edge, and receiving a glare in return that made his fists clenched. "You seemed to find it fine that I worked on the copycat and anything to do with Voldemort before, regardless of any psychiatry taking place."

"Harry, please, be reasonable," Tonks said. "You know things have changed - look at the damn wall. You're becoming a target to this man."

"Well, he was a target for Voldemort as well," Ron pointed out.

"Thank you!" Harry exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air, and trying not to think why he was so insistent on this point. "So let's not waste time bickering when-"

"Yes," Robards snarled. "So go home. You know regulation, you can't be here, it is getting too personal. It can no longer be dismissed as interpretation or coincidence - this is not some dead man with a resemblance to you, this is over a dozen photos of you strapped down, cut open, and writhing in pain in more than once."

"Bit kinky actually," Dawlish mumbled. There was a complete silence, and they all turned to stare at him, the colour completely drained from Harry's face. The Auror seemed to realise what he'd said aloud, and held his hands up in surrender, flushing. "Sorry! I just - I meant -"

"I'm aware of the psychology," Harry said stiffly. "Stabbing as penetration, often used by impotent psychopaths like a form of sexual release. I took the bloody classes same as you."

And it was doing absolutely nothing for his mental state.  
He'd never felt more disturbed in his life. Perhaps the only reprieve was that this was the presumably the copycat, and not Voldemort - because, frankly, being attacked and ravaged by the man's emotions about torturing him was a whole new level of messed up that he didn't want to approach.

"Go home," Robards repeated, more quietly this time. "You look white as sheet, and we need to work. I don't need to worry that you're going to puke on the evidence."

"I'm not going to puke on the evidence."

"Which is concerning in itself," Savage muttered. "How are you taking this so calmly?"  
Did they think he was calm? He felt like the careful tape and stitches on his personality were dissolving in the insanity before him.

And Tom wasn't even here.  
Bloody Psychiatrists. That was why it had been a bad idea to let anyone even remotely close. He had the type of lifestyle where a mass murdering Dark Lord and his following was just dying to rip out any possible stabilizers he found in his life, just to see how far he could fall.

He hoped Tom was okay.

Maybe he was going to be sick after all.

"Guys...we just the blood samples back. It's not just Riddle's blood."

"Excuse me?" Harry turned, sharply. "Who's is it?"

There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of confusion.  
"It's coming up as Barty Crouch, Jr, on our records."

Bloody hell.

* * *

Barty Crouch Junior was crouched near Number 12 Grimmauld Place, waiting quietly, discreetly, his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn't know how this had happened.

He saw Potter arrive on the street, and was behind him in seconds, only to receive wild-eyes and a wand in his face.

He smirked back, unconcerned.

"I think you'll be wanting to come with me, because I'm not telling the Ministry anything about Doctor Riddle's location locked up in a cell."

* * *

**_A/N: Confused? MUHAHAHAHA. _**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Harry knew that this was stupid, that he was about to get himself killed, that handing over his wand to a copy cat serial killer was the type of stunt that would lead to his colleagues analysing his body in the morgue.

But the git was right. Harry wouldn't risk never finding Riddle, because this man seemed the type who'd faced the tortures of Azkaban and broken mad beneath the strain, and wouldn't crack and yield anything under Ministerial interrogation. Perhaps under Veritaserum, but who even knew what poor state Tom was in by the blood!

No, he may have had choices, but there was no real acceptable alternative here.

He was led blindfolded, hands tied, somewhere else, his heart lashing against his rib cage and a bad taste in his mouth.

He recognised the magic that coiled around him instantly, insidious, dark, familiar.

He just about stopped his breath from hitching.

"Voldemort..." the words were breathed out of his mouth before he could even think about it.  
He took an instinctive step back, only to land on Crouch's foot. The copy cat and Voldemort in one room. "I really hope I'm not marking your first collaborative attempts."

He couldn't see the other, but he could feel him, and maybe that was even worse.  
Even on a crime scene it didn't feel this intense. There was excitement, anticipation, a fondness, and most predominantly an edge of obsession at the steel of everything else - all reaching out for him, like a caress of fingers against his mind.

His throat bobbed.

Crouch's grip tightened, forcing him forward, down onto his knees.

There was no immediate response, but cold hands brushed against his face, firming, tilting his head up and baring his throat. Fingers, almost familiar, curved in, exploring and mapping the contours of his face, smoothing across his eyes, and he tried to bite when the pad of a thumb dragged against his lip.

The grip immediately tightened.  
"Now now," Voldemort's voice was high and cold, the voice of his nightmares, hardly seeming real as it echoed in his eyes, "no need for that. I'm not going to hurt you, Harry."

"Where's Tom?" he demanded.

"That is not your concern right now."

"Actually it bloody well is. I certainly didn't come here for you," Harry snapped. He felt vulnerable, exposed, unable to see his enemies, and he didn't like it one bit.

What the hell was going on here?

"Rude," the other murmured, softly. "You should mind your manners, before someone else minds them for you."

"What do you want from me?" Harry demanded, after a moment, resisting the urge to swallow.

"Oh, numerous things," Voldemort said, almost dismissively.

"What do you want from me right now?" he clarified, jaw tight. Those fingers moved down, ghosting over his neck, and breath soon followed. Harry's shoulders went rigid.

"A choice," the killer murmured. "I simply want you to make a choice. When I untie you."

"And what's the choice?" Harry questioned, carefully. He would attack when he was untied, and not play along, Voldemort had to know that. He wasn't stupid, Harry could see that from his crimes. That thought did nothing to reassure him now.

"You can kill Crouch and walk free. Or you can walk free and I will find Mr Riddle and kill him instead."

For a second, Harry was convinced that the entire world had frozen and ground to a halt. Voldemort's hands settled on his shoulders, and he just felt utterly sick.

"I refuse."

"Then I will kill Mr Riddle and toss you back on the streets. Barty, today is your lucky day..."

Different hands grabbed him - Crouch's then - starting to haul him back up again, and Harry's heart raced, his mind writhing and twisting.

He'd never killed anyone before.

"Wait," he bit out.

He could practically feel the smugness radiating off Voldemort, and loathed it.

"Yes, Harry?"

"How do I know you'll keep your side of the bargain? How do you know I can kill him, even if I wanted to?"

"There are more ways than an Avada Kedavra to kill a man. I'll leave the methods to your discretion."

Why wasn't Crouch protesting to this? Of course, he knew Voldemort would want the copy cat dead, for tainting his work, degrading it, but...but he'd never expected this.

Bile clawed up his throat.

"We will make an oath on this matter," Voldemort purred.

He resisted the urge to swallow, more than aware that those eyes would be swallowing and devouring every twitch of movement which he made, and instead held a hand out blindly.

"Terms?"

Long fingers curled around his own, brushing rather unnecessarily along the flutter of pulse, dragging down. His mouth felt dry.

"You kill Barty Crouch before leaving this room, and I will let Mr Riddle go, unharmed by this ordeal, immediately upon the murder. You will not attack me, I will not attack you."

Harry wetted his lips, trying to think of any possible flaws in the words, a loophole - anything that would give him advantage or put him at a disadvantage. There was nothing.

Was Voldemort a politician when he wasn't playing Dark Lord?

"Deal," he murmured. The oath was struck. Harry had never felt more sick in his life, however much he was trying to justify all of this to himself. Crouch was a criminal, and if someone had to die here, surely he should make it so that the innocent lived?

His blindfold was taken away, and, for the first time, he got to see the Dark Lord.

Serpentine, scarlet-eyed, tall and thin. Harry very nearly reared back and recoiled immediately at the sight.

Not a man. He wasn't even a man. This was the work of seriously dark magic. A chill ran down his spine, and his blood was crushed ice in his veins.

He stayed rigidly still for a moment, just studying carefully.

Those scarlet eyes burned into his skin in turn, into his brain.

He had a feeling his nightmares just got worse.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, quietly.

Voldemort's head tilted, and for a second, Harry was convinced he wouldn't answer. He had no reason to, really.

"Numerous reasons."

"Give me one," Harry challenged, jaw clenching.

He received a smile in response, the most terrifying one he'd ever seen in his life, lipless, and...Voldemort wasn't supposed to be physically deformed. He blended. So either his face in everyday life was a glamour, or this one was.

The appearance either way was telling.

"Because I think you'd look beautiful broken."

Harry stared for several long moments, heart hammering, the statement echoing deafeningly in his ears and splintering all of his other thoughts.

_The man was insane._

He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.  
It was just words, not his inevitable sentence, but with the deal he'd just struck, a sense of helplessness crept into his blood nonetheless.

His fists clenched at his sides, and the cuffs on his hands were quickly removed too, his wand tossed back to him.

He wanted to attack more than anything, to obliterate the mind games, and this killer who insisted on stalking his shadow and twisting it to a new shape.

He could see now how easily how he'd been led to this moment, and the simplicity of it was unnerving. Voldemort had used even the copy cat against him, and was now fulfilling his own desires simultaneously in Crouch's death.

Convenient. How bloody convenient.

How could he do this? How the hell could he do this? He didn't want to kill anyone, and with the dark thoughts already brimming in his head, he was terrified of the consequences.

That was probably the point. The consequences. Just another little push until he was like a glass quivering before it shattered, ready for Voldemort's most gentle tap to push him over the edge and fragment beyond repair.

He didn't want to think about it, so he spun, pointed his wand, and cast.

Barty Crash shattered instead.

* * *

Tom didn't think he'd ever seen a more exquisite thing in his life.

Of course, he'd been fascinated to see how Harry would choose to commit his murder, but, now that he had, he couldn't imagine it having been any other way.

Reducto. Straight through the chest.

Such a simple, easy way. It was a school-yard spell, and yet, even if Harry didn't seem to realise it or avoided the thought, extremely painful and ruthless in comparison to the Avada Kedavra curse, even if it didn't require the same direct murderous intention. He supposed Harry wasn't quite ready to confront his full potential for darkness. But he didn't mind. He enjoyed it better this way.

Harry's choice was also a repelling curse, like the auror was trying to shove the whole matter away from him as hard as possible, exploding.

His eyes gleamed with delight.

He'd love it when the boy was ready to do it properly, when he too took pleasure in the kill, in the finesse a wand or a scalpel could bring, in the way light faded from eyes and the rush of glorious power that followed with the knowledge that life and death was theirs to command.

They were gods.

But it was after the kill, the aftermath, with a vacant expression of a false idol on the floor, blood everywhere like a most fantastic Jackson Pollock, that the true satisfaction shifts in.

Their emotions blur together like wet water colours, his a hungry crimson, a tongue of flame, devouring the bruised purples and blues of sorrow and violence, the blooming burnt yellow of guilt like sickness, spreading, and the black as the tendrils of his influence draw the other ever closer.

It tastes like perfection on his tongue.

He can see Harry's face crumple, just a little bit, like he's sucked out some of the light in his eyes and claimed it for his own. There's a clench of steel jaw against him, a putting up of fists and shoulders squared in defense and he could wrench the barricades aside so effortlessly right now and spread the boy bare before him in his quivering, fragile mental state.

He doesn't.

Some kills are quick, some meals a hasty dash because something needs to be consumed for consumptions mistakes. But Harry is a delicacy, something to be savoured and relished.

He'll pick him apart slowly, teasing every last drop of emotion and defence, every inch of goodness and morality that covers Harry like he was a pair of shoes that had been meticulously shined all over for the first day of school.

It was funny. Harry's outside was more chaotic than that of Tom Riddle's immaculate dress, but where his own heart and mind were carefully ordered for the finest of destruction, for art, Harry's was a chaotic fingerpainting of life and personality.

Harry was an essentially good person, a moral golden boy and guiding beacon for all things light in the world.

He'd never wanted to ruin anything more than his life.

He stepped forward, once, some more, when Harry still stood frozen, throat bobbing, eyes fixed on the his first intentional kill.

"Just as well Mr Riddle's still alive," he purred, against the boy's ear. "You look rather like you need a psychiatrist to stitch up the cracks again."

Harry stepped back, turned to face him.  
"Your part of the deal. Fulfill it. Now." The voice was cold, stiff. Eyes? Devastatingly vulnerable.

He smoothed out a finger to lift the other's chin, relishing the momentary collapse for his need for persona.

"So you don't want to pick out a butterfly?"

He laughed as he was shoved away, violently, eyes flashing and flaring with fury.  
He grinned back, with no pretense of soft lips to hide sharp teeth bared in his glee.

He levitated Crouch easily, heading for the door, glancing back when he was outside of the wards.

"Tom will be in his home. I put him there about the same time Barty picked you up. Run along now."

He disapparated.

* * *

_A/N: Um, so maybe I should change the ratings. Oh well. Hope you enjoyed the chapter :) Note, to all who follows my stories, each one follows a different type of dynamic, just to warn you...or maybe make you feel better that their might still be fluff somewhere in the future of my fanfiction writing haha._

_Reviews, as always, are much appreciated for my time and...er, not money?  
I think I'm hyper. Oh well!_

_PS: This story will probably be shorter than my other ones. We're a good bit into it already, so...'enjoy' while it lasts I hope?_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

It took Harry a while to track down where Tom lived, as the other's personal life was never the topic for their sessions and conversations.

Nonetheless, he hurried there with all haste, disregarding official regulations to do so. He should have gone straight to the office, reported everything that had happened, but...

But...

Well, what the hell did he say? He could obviously tell the truth, but there was something rather uncomfortable about the truth, and his head was spinning, and he had to see if Tom was okay. That Voldemort had kept his side of the deal - that he hadn't just killed Crouch for nothing.

There was no answer when he rang the doorbell, so he kicked the door down, only to set the man's wards screaming.

Moments later, Tom appeared by the stairs, wand in hand. He looked bleary-eyed and battered.  
Harry nearly melted with relief, and for a few seconds he just stared, dishevelled, before realising he was pretty much practically breaking into his psychiatrist's house. Albeit with good reason.

"What the hell happened?" he didn't recognize his own voice.  
Tom flicked his wand to set the wards to rights, coming down the rest of the way down the stairs.

"...what happened to you?" the man returned, studying him carefully. "I'm going to assume it's related to the rather alarming gap that's suddenly in my memory. Last thing I remember is getting attacked in my office, I just woke up here when someone destroyed my wards..."

Harry swallowed, rubbing a hand over his blood-shot eyes.

"You look terrible," Riddle remarked. Harry snorted, hysteria bubbling in his chest. Tom didn't remember anything. He didn't even have a lead. What if Voldemort did this again? Or with somebody else?

His legs suddenly felt like they were going to give out, and Tom was next to him in seconds as his knees buckled, grabbing him around the waist.

"Easy," the Slytherin murmured. "Okay. Let's go sit down. Fill me in on what I missed."

Tom's voice was so calm it soothed, like water over a burn, and he swallowed thickly, allowing the other to guide him through to the living room.

He'd never seen Tom's home before, but it was just as immaculate as his office. The floor was a polished wood, with a soft rug and a sofa which managed to look both elegant and remain comfortable. He sank into it, blindly, eyes darting around the room.

Bookcases again, everything tidy, with a large painting on the wall.

The entire side of the living room was a glass door, leading to a patio and a garden.

"You have a beautiful home," Harry murmured, distractedly. Tom crouched in front of him, fingers smoothing over his hands, and it was only when Tom stilled him that he realised they had been violently trembling at all.

He sucked in a deep, sharp breath.

"You haven't been back to your office?" he asked.

"I just woke up," Tom repeated, eyes fixed on him. Harry wetted his lips, one hand jerking in Riddle's grip. His psychiatrist let it go, watching him run a shaking hand through his hair instead. "What happened?" the other asked, again.

"The Copy Cat - Barty Crouch Junior - he broke into your office. Attacked you."

"We duelled," Tom murmured. "I remember this part."

"Do you remember what happened other than that?" Harry asked, bile in his throat. Tom gave a small shake of his head.

"Nothing."

Harry swallowed. Wondered if he should even say anything at all. But Riddle would find out anyway, wouldn't he? It was a bit of a difficult scene to keep a secret.

"We have...reason to believe that he polyjuiced you and tortured you. There are pictures."

"Polyjuiced me," Tom repeated, eyes narrowing just slightly. Harry could almost see the cogs in his mind working. "Into you."

"Interesting deduction."

"But a correct one, seeing how your shoulders have stiffened," Tom murmured. "Must have been traumatic for you."

"You're seriously talking about me now? You're the one who was horribly attacked and-" and it was his fault. Tom's hands squeezed tightly, forcing his attention again.

"Talk me through what happened," his psychiatrist instructed. "What was the point in attacking me?" the other paused. "...how am I still here? Why wouldn't Voldemort just kill you? What happened?"

Harry's throat bobbed, and he stared down at his knees. Tom's eyes narrowed, barely noticeably.

"What was the deal?" Riddle pressed, "my life for-?"

"It's sorted now," Harry said, softly, eyes distant. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. Harry, please tell me. As your psychiatrist and your...friend. I am worried for you. Voldemort seeks to alienate you, and you need someone on your side to fight him. Somebody you can trust."

"And you're willing to still be on my side after all...this?" He didn't understand. Why? Why would Riddle still bother him when he could make the same money with much less risk with another patient.

Tom gave him a small smile.  
"Evidently so."

"...you don't owe me anything," Harry said, bluntly after a moment. "With all of this and the...deal I negotiated. It was my fault you were dragged into the whole mess in the first place."

"I am not doing this out of obligation," Tom returned, still studying him closely. "Nor for money. Believe it or not, I do just enjoy your company and find you interesting. Besides, I don't much like being used, and I don't like people who attempt to exploit me for their own purposes either."

Harry snorted at that, before shaking his head.  
The images flashed and writhed behind his eyes, and bile clawed up his throat.

He'd done the right thing, hadn't he? Voldemort would have killed Tom if he didn't do it!  
It still felt so wrong, and there was no one he could talk to about it - he - he couldn't put this on Tom, the responsibility. And he didn't know what to do.

They wouldn't put him in Azkaban for this, surely?  
People were already wary that he could sink into Voldemort's, a killer's, perception. How would they take this? They would understand, wouldn't they?

"Harry," Tom pressed once again, nudging his chin up. "You can tell me anything. That's what I'm here for. You can't do this on your own."

Couldn't he? God, even his psychiatrist thought he was breaking.

"Pretty sure you're supposed to encourage independence," Harry muttered.

"Harry, Voldemort wants to destroy you, pick you apart piece by piece. Talk to me, let me help you piece yourself together. **You can trust me.**"

The words seem to come from underwater, and his head was spinning, his gut churning, and he was hyper-aware of Tom's hands still enveloping his own, and of scarlet eyes burned onto his eyeballs, and blood - everywhere blood - and -

Would Voldemort make a crime scene with this?  
Would he take credit?

"Harry, breathe," Tom ordered, calmly, hands moving up, cupping his cheeks. "Breathe for me. Now. There we go, just calm down. Come on, I'll make you a drink - you look like you could do with one."

Harry numbly let Riddle guide him towards the kitchen, just as gleaming and polished - obviously very state of the art, which he could have guessed by how much the man seemed to like cooking.

He felt like he could hurl straight onto the countertop, as Tom pushed him to sit at the little island. He stared at the table, trying to focus - half stood up.

"I need to go and talk to the rest of my team, now that I know you're alright," he murmured. Tom caught his shoulder, firmly, pushing him back down again.

"Just sit down," the other instructed. "There'll still be there later for your report. You are my patient, and my priority right now."

"How can you be so calm when you know what happened?" Harry's voice was hoarse, and he clutched the warm cup of tea shoved into his hands like a lifeline. "I mean - you can guess, and then you don't know and-"

"Drink."

The words cut through his rambling - and god, he was being pathetic! He was trained to deal with situations like this. But not like this. The training didn't compare. Not when he still had Voldemort's emotions streaming along in a whisper with his own. At least, he hoped it was Voldemort's emotions, he didn't know.

He drank. Immediately felt calmer himself, and looked down.

"Have you...put something in this?" he asked.

"Herbs. Medicinal use. Calms you down."

"You put weed in my tea?" Harry blinked. "That can't be ethical."

"I didn't say I weed, I said herbs, of the medicinal type. I came across it in my travels. Old recipes. Would you like to get you some less herbal tea? I also have Earl Grey?"

Harry stared down at the tea, took another sip. Felt the churning in his gut settle marginally.  
"...no, this is good."

Tom nodded, kept a light hand on his shoulder, sat down next to him this time, slowly letting the hand drop as if checking that he was steady first.

"What happened, Harry?" Riddle asked, in that soft, calm 'trust me' voice which simultaneously soothed him and terrified him because he knew the man was just another person trying to get in his head.

Maybe he was there already.

Harry felt jumbled, drained by everything that happened, splintered around the edges, maybe even shattered entirely.

Like Crouch. Crouch with a reducto point blank in his chest.

The next second he'd shoved Tom aside, scrambling off the chair.

"Bathroom! Where's your bathroom I'm going to be sick."

Things blurred a bit after that. He knew he should be at the Ministry, in the Office, sorting this out, telling them Tom wasn't currently kidnapped.

Instead, he was pale faced and shaking, shuddering as he relieved himself of everything in his stomach, white-knuckled. He felt like an old dish cloth that had been wringed out in a knot.

He was vaguely aware that Tom was kneeling next to him - and really, in another situation he would have found it hilarious that the psychiatrist was tainting his immaculate clothing by kneeling on the cold bathroom floor - fingers skating a warm pattern on his back.

He didn't know if this was professional anymore, but his mouth tasted acrid and he swallowed some water given to him blindly too.

"He's dead. I killed him."

"Voldemort?" Tom murmured, a low rumble near his ear. Harry shook his head, jerkily. "Crouch," Tom said, after a moment, and he nodded.

Sometimes, he was thankful that Doctor Riddle was so adequate at slotting together the pieces, because he knew he didn't have to explain the rest of the deal for the other to get the gist of what had happened.

He was hauled up, hands clutching his waist tightly, leading him to the sofa again.  
Blue lounge. Soothing. Like Tom's office. Ruined office. Ruined body. Destroyed. Couldn't even make a butterfly out of it, not really.

It was just as well he had nothing to left to throw up.

"Shh," Tom hushed him. "It's alright."

"It's not alright. I just killed a man."

"Well, he wasn't a very good man," Tom returned.

"Or a good copy cat," Harry snorted, laughing, a little hysterically. He was wrapped in something warm, a blanket, and once again half stood before being gently pushed down again.

"Just stay still. You're in shock, I think," Tom murmured. "You're okay here. You're safe. I'll look after you."

"I need to talk to the Aurors," Harry muttered.

"And you will. But not now," Tom said, softly. "I have sent them all the relevant details whilst you were a bit...fuzzy. They know it's sorted now."

Harry's throat bobbed again, and he nodded, breathing carefully, rubbing his eyes again, nodding again. Tom had sorted it. He wanted more tea.

He'd been calm, facing Voldemort, and calm in the face of his murder, able to do what he had to do to get everyone out of that situation.

But the pressure was gone now, and there was just...nothing to keep him together right now. Nothing to do. Maybe he should go and see the Aurors anyway, if it would give him something to focus on.

But he was also absolutely terrified that he might get called to another crime scene when he arrived. Voldemort's. His. Theirs.

"Tell me what happened. What you're thinking," Tom murmured. "It will make you feel better."

Harry's eyes squeezed shut, colour popping behind the lids. How could he talk about something when it wasn't even sorted in his own head?

"The throwing up didn't clue you in?" he returned, as much in his normal voice as he could manage. He shook his head. "I can't talk about - I - I can't think, I just-my god-"

"Come here," Tom instructed, crooking a finger at him in a gesture to shuffle closer on the sofa. Harry wetted his lips, hesitated, edged a little closer suspiciously.

Tom didn't tug him, one hand still calmly outstretched. Maybe it was that calm that drew him in - that point of solace and quiet when everything in his own head was raging.

Riddle was always so calm, composed. There was probably something wrong with the fact that his psychiatrist was drawing him closer like this, wrapping an arm around his blanketed form, letting him rest his head on his chest, fingers stroking through his hair.

Harry flushed a little, despite himself, clearing his throat.  
"Is this a professional technique?"

"It's not a conventional one, no. But I do believe it's helping, and that is all that matters to me. Now, focus on me, on my hands or whatever else, on the fact that you are secure, go back to the office if you will, or your home, a field, the Quidditch Pitch - anywhere that you feel happy and calm. Shut your eyes if it helps."

Harry tried shutting his eyes, then promptly opened them again because he didn't like what he saw there, in the darkness of his own head.

So he focused on the gentle fingers stroking through his hair. He wasn't...comfortable, he felt awkward and his insides were itching and lurching, but there was something reassuring in the repetitive, soft movements. He swallowed again. Clenched his fists so they wouldn't shake.

He slowly felt himself moving back off the edge of his sanity, or at least so he wasn't hanging by his fingers.

"Now, talk to me," Tom said quietly, again. "How did you feel killing Crouch? - no, focus on the good place..."

Harry glanced up at that, settled again, thought of the fingers to be like the wind tearing through his hair as he was on the Quidditch pitch, soaring free in the air, untouched, chasing after the snitch,

Usually, he'd scorn such practices as stupid therapy exercises that helped nothing. Right now, he'd do and try anything to go back, to just feel...normal again, less unsettled.

"I wasn't thinking at the time. I couldn't. I just...did what I had to do. It didn't even...I couldn't tell what was me and what was...him," he murmured. "I felt...sad, guilty. And..." he hesitated. Tom said nothing, just waiting. "Powerful. Is that wrong? Oh my god, that's wrong, that's sick-"

"Just let go of right and wrong for now," Tom murmured. "They don't matter. You feel what you feel, and you don't need to justify it."

"But it's wrong. It makes me just as bad as him, I-"

"-it is understandable," Tom interrupted, not faltering in his movements. "Of course you would feel powerful, and the power would make you feel good. You were in an incredibly stressful, frightening environment, you probably felt very vulnerable. The power would combat that sense of helplessness and fear. Of course you would feel good. It is natural."

Harry swallowed.

"So it's...it's okay? It doesn't make me - it doesn't make me like him? I mean, the butterflies, that's what he's trying to do. Change me. Make me like him. And if I enjoyed killing, then...does that make me like him regardless?"

"You have a very unique bond with Lord Voldemort, and the ability to completely perceive his point of view. Being able to understand someone who scares you, or disturbs you, does not make you a bad person. Why is good and bad so important to you?"

Snitch getting closer. Gryffindor gets a goal. Cheering in the crowds.

"Because if I can see his point of view, I need something to separate myself. It-it feels like I've done it, when he does it, and now I have...I...it's...it's..." Tom was offering no suggestion to help him finish the sentence, and he wetted his lips, staring at the floor. "It's something to hold onto. I need to be good, because then I'm not him. Now that I've...it was for good reasons. I saved you, that makes me different from him!"

Except, Voldemort thought he was making people into art, redeeming the worst qualities of their living personalities. He didn't view himself as a villain.

The fingers kept moving in his hair, a chest softly rising and falling. Tom still didn't say anything. He needed a rope, something handed to him to cling onto. Something of his own.

"What I did was right, wasn't it?"

"As your psychiatrist it is not my place to pass judgment on your actions."

"But as my friend? Tom- just-I need-"

"As your friend, I would have done the same thing," Tom stated.

Harry sagged a little bit, some tension leaving him, insides still rolling.

"I'm glad you're okay."  
Even to his psychiatrist, even now, there were things he couldn't say, but...when he'd seen that office, torn to shreds and bloodied...

"Get some rest. We can talk more later. I'll make you up a bed in the guest room."

Harry's head snapped up at that, and he sat up.

"No, no it's fine. I can't, I need to get to the office, and I couldn't possibly impose on you in-"

"Overnight observation," Tom said. "It would put my mind at ease. Unless you think it would be beneficial for you to be alone tonight?"

He could go to Ron's, Hermione's...

Possibly face explaining. When did he stop talking to his best friend's about this?

His mind felt scrambled, Tom stared back at him, earnestly, waiting.  
Tom had almost died because of him. Tom helped. Harry bit the inside of his lip, giving a noncommittal shrug.

"...he knows where I live," Harry muttered, after a moment. It wasn't quite an agreement, but...Tom gave him a small nod, in response.

"Come on then. It's late. Help yourself to breakfast before you head out in the morning if I'm not around or awake."

* * *

_A/N: So, it's a fluffy comfort chapter if you don't look too closely ;)  
Hope you enjoyed it :) Thank you so much for the reviews. It sucks when I get all excited and then realize I'm partying alone :P_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

Tom led Harry gently through the rooms of his house, to the spare bedroom next to the masters. He pointed out the large bathroom as he did so, setting aside a fresh, fluffy towel for Harry's use if he wanted to take a shower.

A deep satisfaction thrummed in his veins.

As far as he was concerned, this entire stunt had gone perfectly. It was like finally watching a masterpiece he'd spent years crafting being unveiled to the world for the first time, teased delicate threads being plucked like an exquisite orchestra just for him.

Harry broke so beautifully that he wanted to cry - almost, certainly thank him.

His patient clung to him with an unconscious desperate need. Fine crystal to be the handled with the utmost care and devotion - or, perhaps, diamond. Harry was very strong, like him, and only a diamond could cut another diamond.

Either way, he wanted to devour and cherish every inch of Harry's agony, lap up the terrified confusion and see how many times he could smooth and soothe the fractures before the boy broke beyond all repair.

That had been covered before, but his blood still sang with the desire for it.

Hearing Harry talk about him unknowingly, express openly the guarded secrets of his heart to the very man he should most protect them from, was delicious.

Not that his patient wasn't to some extent in safe hands.

He would never allow anyone else to hurt Harry, he would prize him and even love him, in his own way. A way that could often blur between such affections and hate, fuelled by possession and control.

But that didn't make him want to shred and peel away the gold exterior any less. Harry was so...so contained that he just wanted to rip it all out.

If it wouldn't kill him in such an unsatisfactory manner, Tom would have torn Harry's heart out of his chest, to see those green eyes widen and darken with pain, as life and emotions metaphorically still pumped weakly against his fingers.

More than anything; to claim every part of the other until no one had any doubt about the matter.

"Are you sure it's alright I stay here?" Harry asked, glancing at him. He offered a reassuring smile in response, as they entered the bedroom.

"I already said it's fine," Tom reminded, indulgently - he did so loathe repeating himself. He let his throat bob, as Harry still looked uncertain. "Truthfully," he lied, "as much as I feel a professional obligation to observe you and make sure you're alright, on an unprofessional level I'm grateful for the company tonight. After...everything. Especially the company of a noted Auror such as yourself."

The last part was added with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Harry visibly seemed to bolster and square his shoulders, chin lifting for the mutual purpose, in defiance of being a burden - for being needed.

It was adorable, and even familiar, in a way; though he imagined they liked the sensation for different reasons. He loved the power being needed gave him, Harry craved the confirmation that he was necessary and important to at least someone.

Childhood trauma right there, complete with the pretty bow.

"Well, if it makes you feel better," Harry allowed, attempting a smirk.

"It would," he smiled back once more, before turning serious for a moment as Harry scanned his gaze across the room. Unlike his own bedroom done up in shades of dark green and blue, with wood, this room was cream with one deep crimson wall by the headboard of the bed. "Thank you for making a deal for me."

Harry swallowed, staring at the floor.

"Yeah, well, you know too much about me to be left in Voldemort's company," he tried.

Tom suppressed a grin, keeping his expression sincere, glad Harry wasn't actually looking at him - too uncomfortable with the subject.

"What do you think he would do with the information?"

"Manipulate me to his own design," Harry murmured, immediately, before blinking, fingers flexing, jaw clenching. It was just wonderful.

"Your secrets are safe with me, don't worry. Do you want to borrow some clothes and a toothbrush?"

* * *

When Harry awoke the next morning, twisted in the duvet, he immediately wished he hadn't.

Everything flooded back with a startling clarity that denied the peace of hazed memories and forgetfulness on the matter, and he lay in cold sweat among the unfamiliar sheets.

The crimson wall dripped like blood above him.

It had been an uneasy night's sleep, filled with Crouch's death, and scarlet eyes, and the sense of suffocating as indistinct shadows circled him and caressed his skin. The touches burned cold, as painful as the soft fingers were pleasing. Fingers. Shadows. He meant shadows.

God, wasn't his head messed up enough already?

He sat up, finding a glass of water had been placed on the bedside table for him.  
Tom. He let a weak smile cross his lips, as much as he was mortified that the other had obviously come in whilst he was asleep and no doubt tossing and turning.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, swinging himself out of bed and peeling his shirt off his body.  
Yesterday's events left an acrid taste in his mouth, and nothing quite felt the same anymore - as if the world had been tilted a little, or coloured in a shade just off from normal.

He'd killed someone.

The next second he was stumbling towards the bathroom again, white knuckling the toilet seat, no strength in his knees and nothing left in his stomach to vomit.

He had to get to the Auror office and get his statement. It was just as well he had no desire for breakfast. He straightened, drinking some more water to get the taste of dry heaving out of his mouth.

He straightened to find Riddle leaning against the bathroom door, and almost jumped out of his skin.

"Bloody hell, don't do that!" he snarled. Tom blinked back at him in response, raising his brows, and Harry flushed, gritting his teeth. "Thank you for letting me borrow your spare room. I'll have your shirt returned to you." He plucked at the soft no doubt obscenely expensive material still balled in his hands, trying not to shiver in the cool bathroom.

He was suddenly hyper-aware of the facts that he was standing with gooseflesh in his boxer shorts and nothing else in his Psychiatrist's bathroom, whilst Tom stood in a full three piece suit next to him.

He felt horrendously underdressed, and cleared his throat.

"No rush," Tom murmured, eyes moving over his form, with an almost inspecting manner. Harry folded his arms across his chest.

"I'll get going to the Auror office. I'm sure you're busy with patients-clients, or whatever it is that you do all day," he muttered.

"You're going to give your statement about what happened yesterday?"  
Something in Tom's tone made him pause.

"...you don't think I should?" Harry's brow furrowed.

"It's not my place to comment," Tom replied lightly. Harry scowled.

"I'm asking."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't give a statement. I understand that you have to."

"But?" Harry pressed, as Tom wetted his lips.

"But I cannot help wondering if including all the details is wise."  
Harry stared at him.

"You're suggesting I lie. That's a criminal offence Doctor Riddle."  
Tom stared back at him, unflinching.

"I am suggesting you omit your involvement in the murder of Barty Crouch Jr. Even if you get away with the kill due to your position and the details of the case, including but not limited to Crouch being Voldemort's copycat, do you not think that the admittance of guilt might do more harm than good? If people are already questioning your similarity to Lord Voldemort. If I were you I would think carefully before telling everyone I was another step down the path of violence that he has marked out for you."

"So I should say Voldemort killed Crouch?" Harry's mouth felt dry. It made a horrible amount of sense. People were going to mistrust him, despite his best intentions. Murder was murder, and not even an Auror could be fully exempt from the reach of the law.

They would turn against him for sure.

He could feel the doubts and the paranoia creeping in, the lump of hated hopelessness in his throat and he loathed the kind and careful compassion on Tom's face.  
After a moment, he shook his head decisively, drawing in a breath.

"No. The people who really matter will understand," he stated. He had to believe that. He just had to. "Thanks for the concern, really, but I'll be okay. Besides, I don't think I can really afford to have shared secrets with a serial killer. Voldemort would only use it against me, or reveal my deceit at the most inconvenient time possible - the initial lie would really make everyone doubt me."

Tom was silent for several long seconds.

"You really do seem to understand him remarkably well," the Psychiatrist said. "Presuming your assumptions are correct."

Harry shrugged.  
"He's a manipulative bastard, and I already know that dark secrets have a way of coming back to bite."

"Doubt either way then," Tom stated. "Good luck."

"Cheers," Harry snorted, edging out the bathroom. "And thanks again."

"It was no trouble. I will see you later, yes?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Good."

* * *

The crime scene was there that evening.

Harry had been anticipating it, but he still dreaded the call when it came in.  
He'd tried resisting, saying that he didn't want to see, that he didn't want to be on this case anymore, that he just...couldn't.

They hadn't listened; had pleaded and entreated and reminded him that they needed him to catch Voldemort, that he was the only one who could, or didn't he want to catch the man? That the whole point of the Psychiatrist was so that he could continue doing the job.

So here he was, standing in the room, cleaning his glasses and staring at his feet so he could avoid looking for even just a moment longer. There was a twisted, churned up feeling in his stomach, and the stench of blood in his nose.

Not looking didn't stop him from being buffeted by the emotions though - absolute glee, admiration either, something coy and offering, a sharp crystallized form of obsession that caressed him just like the shadows in his dream. His nightmare.

His throat bobbed and he looked up.

It was different from the other set ups - of course it was - it was Crouch, and there was no butterfly posture and spread of limbs anymore, which just terrifyingly reminded him that he was dealing with a highly intelligent sociopath who was only killing in a pattern to show off his work and allow them to track him, to make a message.

There was no compulsion to kill like that, though he did suspect that Voldemort would have a thing about about always making his kills elegant or artistic, but other than that he might never kill in the same way if he didn't want to. There was no time pattern to measure either.

The scene in front of him made bile claw up his throat.  
Crouch had been blown apart with his Reducto spell, but now, all the guts and the organs had been placed in bowls and plates on the table, delicately arranged in a buffet and cooked, the blood in glasses parading as wine. Butterflies, of course.

Harry took an unwilling step forward, the candles on the table flickering on his face.

"Potter," Scrimgeour rumbled, in an indication that he should start talking about his observations.

Harry's fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"Our first date," he bit out. "A meal is traditional, is it not? This is...he means it as a gift, a showcasing of..." he squeezed his eyes shut, "a showcasing of my work. He's proud of it. He also no doubt wants to remind you of what I've done."

He reluctantly opened his eyes again, moving around to see different angles.

"Of course," he continued, "the body isn't like it would be to his design, and he compensates for that with his arrangements because even now he cannot completely give up control."

Blood and violence washed behind his eyelids.

"It's not complete, but he has meticulously put the pieces of the heart on his own plate. He owns that. Devours that. It is his."

"Does he mean Crouch's heart for copying him, or yours?" Robards questioned.

Harry's stomach lurched.  
"Both. It's not implausible that he can read my emotions just like I can read his. In that sense, I would imagine he feels a sense of ownership. I don't know." His head was spinning, and he rubbed his temples.

Ron and Tonks both watched him with concern.  
"Boss," Tonks began. "Maybe we should continue this conversation else-"

"No," Scrimgeour said, his eyes still fixed upon him. Harry circled the table again.

"My plate has...I think it's brain matter. Of course. Head and heart. Either I'm getting in his head, or he's getting into mine and...scrambling it, much like Crouch's was scrambled with the Reducto. I'm...I'm consuming his thoughts, his ideologies and motivations. Trying to think like him for this case and so in some way becoming him when I analyse him. The Butterfly at the centre consolidates that...it's a...a Viceroy Butterfly. It copies the poisonous Monarch butterfly."

There was a terse silence.

"You copying Voldemort, becoming him," Scrimgeour supplied.

"In his eyes," Harry murmured.

"The Viceroy copies the Monarch to gain protection from the predators they share though, doesn't it?" Savage mused. "Who are you trying to gain protection from by copying him in his eyes?"

Harry smiled, without mirth.  
"I'm protecting myself and the people around me from him. Mr Riddle could tell you that, I'm sure. Mimic him, identify with him, and he won't kill me. Step out of the boundaries of what he would like for me, shatter the illusionary relationship he thinks he has with me...the protection is broken. He..." he'd said he thought Harry would look beautiful broken.

He didn't know. Everything was confused. Time to move on.

"The blood in the glass represents wine. I could go biblical on that...blood of Christ...last supper connotations...but I think he means the meal more in the sense of a first date, whether that's a mockery or sincere I don't know. It's blurred. As much as the whole scene is rife with symbolism, it's also a taunt. He knows perfectly well I'd hate this...this gift. He's not simple. His motivations and actions are layered. He can love whilst he hates something, he destroys to create, he revels in paradox."

But the blood of Christ was supposed to save...what was this, supposed to ruin? Or did Voldemort believe he was in some way saving him?

He didn't know. It was difficult to be objective when his own guilt and emotions tangled among Voldemort's, and he was suddenly shocked to realize how difficult for him to distinguish still now what was him and what wasn't his.

That really wasn't good.

He turned abruptly away from the scene.

"I'm done. That's all I know."

He could feel their eyes on him as he strode away from the table.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to Lydia Theda for telling me about Viceroy Butterflies :) I hope you liked this chapter. Reviews are, as always, appreciated. New episode of Hannibal was amazing. I'm so looking forward to writing more of this story, even if I am on hiatus for everything else at the moment. Um yeah. Some Hermione and Ron in the next chapter, if you're interested :P  
_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

Harry didn't think he'd had a proper nights sleep in weeks.

The dreams continued, disorientated and splintered. It was like running his mind along lines of twisting black silk, that enveloped him and smothered him, so light that he could ignore it outside of the fact he couldn't breathe.

It glided across his skin, sensuous and disturbing for the hands that controlled it, never visible for long. He shivered beneath it, woke up in his sheets drenched in cold sweat, bewildered and terrified at the same time and not quite able to put his finger on what was making him so uneasy.

He was sure a dream analyser would have a field day. He was sure Tom would too. But he hadn't mentioned them.

Though he felt closer to Tom after the whole Voldemort debacle, something having cemented with his actions and Riddle's easy acceptance and ability to be there, exactly as he needed - there were some things that still felt too intimate to be discussed.

His mouth felt dry, as he sat up night after night, rubbing the haze away from his eyes, vision smeared like scarlet on alabaster skin. Too pale.

There were butterflies too. Always the butterflies amongst the silk, he couldn't always see them, but he could feel them, fluttering against his skin, into his mouth if he screamed.

One night, the silk had been a cocoon, stringing him up, trapped until he was ready to...well, be a butterfly he supposed. And all the times, the shadows moved around him.

Actually, scratch the dream analyser. It wasn't that subtle, and he didn't need a degree to be able to tell quite clearly the distorted impressions which had invaded his mind. He knew who had crawled in there.

And he didn't like it.

Ron and Hermione were worried about him too, he knew. He'd met up with them both recently, outside of work for the first time in too long. It had been good. He hadn't quite realized how much he had missed them.

But he couldn't talk to them, however much Hermione tried to gently coax him to do so.

He just...he knew they wouldn't understand, couldn't understand. Their minds were entirely their own, and if they made some stupid plans, they could be confident that it wasn't somebody else's seed. They could be confident who they were.

Harry would have given anything for that luxury.

Voldemort had gone quiet for a bit, though Harry wasn't willing to bet that meant anything good for anyone. He continued having sessions with Tom, and the months slipped closer to a grey Christmas.

There was also the Ministry's Winter Ball coming up now, which he was absolutely dreading.  
Hermione said it would be fun, a chance to forget about things for a bit. Ron said at least they had free wine and snacks.

All Harry could think of was all the people who were going to stare at him, and ask him all sorts of questions which they seemed to think were okay just because they were curious and he was Harry Potter.

And the entire time, he couldn't help but wonder if he would be invited for a 'second date'.

The whole thing was bloody exhausting.

He was still trying to catch Voldemort, to pin down who he could be from what little he'd carefully scraped together over the years.

It all came down to that Halloween Night.  
For a reason, unbeknownst to him or anyone else as far as he was aware of, a serial killer had targeted his parents and killed them. He himself had been left with the lightning bolt scar, which was now somehow the cause of their connection.

He was a psychiatrist's dream date ever since - the talk of such circles, as the vultures circled and bickered over who got to pick at his brain and work out what it was that clicked with his would be executioner, and whether that had been caused by Halloween, or was the cause of Halloween and the reason he was still alive.

It was more than evident that Voldemort was unpredictable though. His kills leapt around, with varying motives, and sometimes just for fun or to make a point. It was all different brush strokes and colours by the same artist, on a collage of different canvasses.

Harry dreaded finding out what the final product was.  
Recently, however, he couldn't help but have other suspicions too.

It was unnerving, but he suspected Voldemort might be someone close to him. For years, he'd played it as just being the link between them, but...he knew an alarming amount, and the most alarming thing was that for years now he seemed to have been waiting for something. Harry just didn't know what it was.

If this was all just about converting him, surely it would have been easier just to kidnap him early and raise him wrong?

No, this was a game. He just wasn't entirely sure what they were playing for.

Well, someone close to him, or someone with connection to the Aurors, because Voldemort's crimes had stepped up a hell of a lot after a thirteen year absence, and increased again when he joined the Aurors.

Thirteen years - nothing.  
Then the killings started, again, with a very clear tag and he'd felt those emotions for the first time. They'd overwhelmed him completely.

He'd spent the last of his Hogwarts years learning how to manage the influx, then he'd joined the Aurors to catch the bastard, and it had stepped up again.

The butterflies started.  
It was stupid to say that the murders tracked the progression of his 'relationship' with Voldemort, but he found it to be true.

Whilst the man had always been fixated on him to some extent, it was with the butterflies that he became obsessed. Maybe because Harry was old enough to play with such things.

He didn't know.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a light touch to his shoulder.

"Hello Harry, may I call you Harry?"  
For a second, Harry just stared, confused as to why Rita Skeeter was there, right in front of him. She clutched her acid green handbag tightly, quill floating next to her, with a sharp white smile that reminded him of some horrible creature more than anything else. "May I sit down?"

"No."

She sat down anyway, and his jaw clenched. The quill was already scribbling away.

This was why Hermione was bloody campaigning for libel laws in the wizarding world.

"So, Harry. Did you read my latest article?" she smiled.

"The one calling me a crazy mass murdering serial killer and suggesting that I myself was Lord Voldemort?" Harry returned, coldly. "I try not to rot my brain with trash. What do you want? This is the Auror Office, you shouldn't be here."

"I was wondering if you would like to give any comment?" she persisted.

"I don't see what the point is, when you twist my words either way," he bit out, eyes flashing.

She looked at him for a long moment, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear, legs crossing as she leant a little across his desk.

It would have been easy enough for her to get in, if she was already in the Ministry, and she'd shown herself to have a way of wriggling and wrangling her way into places she had no business being. Like near his home. He just wished he hadn't stayed late tonight, so he could be cornered like this.

Maybe he was trying to avoid having to go to bed, being alone with his own thoughts. He was meeting Ron and Hermione later. Hadn't worked out so well.

"Your co-operation would go a long way in ensuring that I wouldn't need to...flesh out the details to make it more interesting for public consumption," she murmured, head tilting. "I heard you met the self-named Lord Voldemort. Do you have any comments about that?"

"No."

She wetted her lips, the quill scribbling away next to her.  
"Have you considered even for a moment that you might need someone in the prophet on your side?" she raised her brows, giving a small laugh. "Instead of, heavens forbid, simply pushing every journalist away with this curious and suspicious brand of hostility you seem to have."

His eyes narrowed a little as he studied her.  
"And you think you're the journalist to do that," he noted. "In exchange for what?"

"Exclusive information," she replied, simply. "Crime scene photos. Lord Voldemort is the ultimate scoop." He stared at her, aghast, and she leaned over, sliding a business card over the table. "Think about it, Harry. Because at the moment, sweetie, you're on a sinking ship whether I write a negative opinion on you or not. I can take back what I said about you. I can also make life more difficult."

* * *

"Are you going to that ministry function?"

Tom glanced up at the question. It was their normal session time, and he was very pleased with Harry's progress.

His boy was slowly opening up to him, so long as he was careful. That was the beauty of this, he wasn't prying Harry open, the other was unwittingly handing him the keys.

Maybe he knew, deep down, that he wanted to be saved. And Tom could make him into something perfect.

"Do you want me to?" he returned, lightly. Harry's lips thinned at the lack of straight answer, one hand running through already dishevelled hair.

"It would be nice to have some more people on my side. Maybe you'll keep some of the more inappropriate questions at bay. I don't know."

"A buffer," he verified, nearly smiling. Harry wetted his lips.

"Are you going or not?"

"Are you asking me to be your plus one?"

"Is that appropriate? Considering your my doctor," Harry asked, uncomfortably. "I mean, are there rules against this sort of stuff?"

"Not in the Wizarding World. My brand of 'mind-healing' is too new a trade, here, for any of the muggle rules to have been truly established." Some, but not if Harry initiated the interaction. Harry nodded, after a moment.

"I'd appreciate if you came."

"Just as well that I've been invited then," he murmured, favouring the other with a small smile. Harry huffed

"You made me go through that for nothing? What were you trying to prove?"

"When I met you, you refused to ask for any type of help from me, and were largely in denial of the human need for a support system," Tom pointed out. Harry grimaced.

"In other words, you were trying to check if my trust issues had improved or worsened," he bit out, eyes tight with annoyance. "Change my mind, you don't have to come. You're as bad as them."

He repressed a sigh.

"Harry. I would like to come with you."

"To make sure I don't crack?"

"Because I consider you my friend, and...I must have misread your question, I apologize." He deliberately bit his lip, let his composure crack unprofessionally for a second, before it turned blank and he looked away, before back. "Are you feeling up to discussing your nightmares yet?"

Harry's brow furrowed.

"What did you think I meant by my question?" he demanded.

"Normally, a plus one is a date," Tom said, after a long moment. Harry's eyes widened, before colour abruptly flooded his face.

"I-right-um-I suppose it does-er-" he hadn't thought of it like that, but now that Tom had mentioned it, he couldn't stop thinking of it like. He was pretty sure dating his psychiatrist crossed professional boundaries. He didn't even think of Tom that way. Though the man was an attractive bastard, and...

"I've made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. My question was counterproductive."

"No-no...I mean, it's an, er, valid question. You'd want to establish I wasn't getting too close, too attached. I mean, if that happens, you have to refer me to someone else or drop me, don't you? That's what Hermione said about the rules. Um...yeah, no, I didn't mean it like that. Don't worry."

Why had Tom seemed so nervous though? Harry wetted his lips, cleared his throat.

"Right then," Tom concluded. "Do you still wish me to attend, solely in the parameters of moral support? I would be more than happy to. I will be there anyway. Many of my clients have extended the invitation."

Harry relaxed.

"They have?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you're there, anyway."

"Excellent."

He had a lot planned for this oh-so-special occasion.

* * *

_A/N: No, I'm still not officially back, but hey...Butterfly Heart. Slow updates here and there, I guess. Reviews are much appreciated :)_


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

"Did you want it to be a date?" Harry asked, quietly. He was standing outside of the Ministry with Tom, shoulders hunching forwards and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark green dress robes against the brisk chill in the air. Tom's robes were black on the top, light and almost silky, with a hint of burgundy underneath and a white shirt.

The other glanced askance at him, looking almost surprised at the question.  
"As you said," his psychiatrist murmured, "that would be inappropriate."

But it didn't answer the question. Harry's mouth felt dry, as he watched Tom, dropped his gaze, watched him again.

"Did you though?" he insisted. Tom studied him carefully in turn.

"Do you want me to want to? You seemed rather opposed to the idea when I suggested the implications of a plus one."

The lack of straight answer told him everything he needed to know - then again, Tom wasn't one for straight answers normally, so maybe he was just reading into it. He didn't know what to think of how to feel either way, and wetted his lips.

"I think Voldemort might be someone close to me," he said, instead, as they started walking up to the front door. It was an easier topic, familiar ground between them, if a little new in his revelation.

Tom glanced at him again, expression impassive though his eyebrows arched a little.  
"Should I take that non-sequitur as an accusation?" he asked, mildly.

Harry's brow furrowed for a moment, eyes flickering with confusion, before his expression cleared.  
"What? No - merlin - I didn't mean you. Sorry, bad conversation change there. I just-no it's not an accusation."

"Glad to hear it. That could have been counterproductive."

"Your biggest concern over being accused of being a mass murderer is that they'd be counterproductive to my therapy sessions?" Harry snorted.

Tom gave him a small smirk.  
"I'm very dedicated to my job."

The ballroom was exquisitely if ostentatiously decorated, with glittering lights overhead and a large dance floor which gleamed beneath their feet. Harry hovered uncomfortably on the edge of the room, not stepping into the swirl of different colours and fabrics and faces, frantically trying to search out a familiar face or head of ginger hair.

Tom was regarding him quietly, the smirk having faded for something more serious.

"Have you reported your theory to the other Aurors? Do you have any idea who it could be?"

Harry shook his head to both.  
"I'm looking into it. Possible motivations. People powerful and intelligent enough to pull it off. Would have to be a master Occlumens, otherwise I would already know who it was. I'd be able to sense the emotions the second I stepped near them. At the moment it's only during murder that he becomes...unfettered. Though I suspect he's manipulating what I get there too. Course he is. I get it because he wants me to get it. Maybe it's Snape. He's good at that mind stuff and his attempts to teach me Occlumency were crap. Fits the criteria in some ways. Hated my father, could be why he killed him."

"Severus Snape?" Tom murmured.

"You're skeptical?" Harry returned.

"No," Tom said. "It's a logical conclusion. I'm also not, however, entirely convinced either without proof."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. Proof was a reasonable demand. He needed proof. Something other than shadows to cling to and grasp at.

The next second they'd been spotted and swept into the party.

The thought still lingered.

* * *

The ball was alright, all things considered including his own awkwardness on such occasions. Though, he had to admit, he was a damn sight better than he had been in his fourth year.

He cringed at the memories.

He moved around the room, mingling and dancing with different people, still trying to find Ron and Hermione amongst the crowd.

Tom dispersed from him from a while, but mercifully didn't stray too far when the uncomfortable questions started, or to those who viewed him in a less than friendly light or suspicion in regards to the Voldemort case.

Harry knew Tom was a famous psychiatrist, of course, but it was only outside of the context of their private sessions in Tom's office that he realized to what extent this was.

The other appeared highly respected, and seemed to know everyone with a lot of influence. It reminded him of his initial reluctance over mind healers - they knew too much, too intimately, about too many people.

They were in an enormous position of power, especially if they abused it.  
He swallowed.

Tom wasn't like that though. Tom...helped. He was good.

"Harry?" He glanced over, startled, when the familiar weight of the other's hand settled on his shoulder. "Alright?" Tom scrutinized him carefully.

Harry forced a smile, before nodding, thoughts spinning over a new idea now.  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

Tom glanced around them briefly, at the bustle of people already swarming for attention, before sliding his other hand around Harry's waist and pulling him round on the dance floor, settling smoothly in with the music.

The people drifted back, at bay out of whatever sense of politeness they had.

"Talk to me," Tom instructed quietly.

Harry didn't say anything immediately, half pulled away from dancing, embarrassed, but Tom's grip was surprisingly secure and squirming away would cause more of a scene then just dancing with the man. Even if Tom was dancing with him for the sake of uninterrupted private conversation. He swallowed.

"You must feel very powerful, doing your job," he murmured, finally. "People give you their weakest points, trust you with it. You must have a tremendous amount of influence on people."

Tom watched him carefully.

"And this disturbs you?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said, honestly. "Though that's not really my current line of thought. I just..." he wetted his lips, growing more animated as he thought it out in his head. "I assumed Voldemort was someone of great magical power, because that would account for his self-obsessed sense of superiority, and how easily he gets his victims to comply to his wishes. There are never signs of a struggle, after all. I mean, with me and you, he just blackmailed me into doing what he wanted instead of using force..." Harry's eyes focused again from where he'd drifted, to find Tom still listening intently. "Sorry. I'm just thinking aloud at you. This is supposed to be a party."

"By all means," Tom looked amused. "Feel free to continue." There was that same razor sharp intelligence present though, despite the reassuring smirk he received. "You think if Voldemort doesn't have magical power, he must have another type of power. Like, as your once again offensive non-sequitur suggests, a psychiatrist."

Harry offered a sheepish grin.  
"Sorry. But yeah, exactly. Like a psychiatrist. Or a...teacher. Anyone that the people in the victim range would naturally trust."

"Like an Auror," Tom said quietly. Harry's eyes snapped up, and he swallowed.

"Like an Auror," he accepted, mulling over the thought. That worked too. Alarmingly well actually with the other evidence. "Flexible timing, though he works primarily in the evening and the night, with the bodies found in the morning. So teacher isn't ruled out either."

"So position of power. Close to you. Intelligent. Looking ominous for constructive therapy sessions," Tom murmured. "I mean, aside from that I apparently beat up, torture and threaten to kill myself."

Harry snorted, not really very amused.

"Well, that puts a disturbed light on things. Merlin," he muttered, before shaking his head. "No, if it was you, I'd...be far more...changed by now. He said he wanted me broken. You don't do that. Hell, if anything you're the only thing-" he stopped himself, throat bobbing. It seemed too vulnerable to admit that, even thoughtlessly. He didn't much like the thought of how much he was relying on Tom nowadays, however much he was also grateful for it. "Unless he was lying," he got himself back on track, continying. "And considering I could feel how delighted he was by the statement, I don't think he was."

"Glad to see my name is cleared then," Tom said. "Would you like me to give you a name of some other mind healers in my field?"

"Thanks," Harry murmured. "But I think I'm going to go over the victim list again with this in mind. There has to be some correlation. Some place where he would meet the victims, which they all have in common. A service they all have taken. I'll check when they were at Hogwarts too."

Spurred by progress after so long, Harry offered an apologetic smile and pulled away again, only for Tom to tighten his grip again. Harry's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You work too much," Tom said, seriously. "Have you considered that? What happened to having the night off?"

"Voldemort could be picking out another victim...and you want me to dance?" Harry demanded incredulously. "The sooner the case is solved, the better." He suddenly flushed. "Um. Not that I'm ditching you as my plus one. Well, I am."

"Rude."

"Sorry."

"I understand. Duty calls," Tom said, giving him a small smile. Harry suddenly felt guilty. Because he had invited Tom as his...plus one. Even if he still didn't have a clue what to think of that.

Hell, it was hard enough knowing that what he was feeling was actually him, without contemplating further on the potentially blurred lines between liking someone and needing them.

Tom could probably be the first to tell him that his 'clients' often sought to supplement a professional relationship to justify and feel better about the uneven power balance of knowledge. .

Either way, actually doing anything about it when he didn't have a clue wasn't a good idea. He wasn't...stable enough at the moment to be involved in anything. Tom had to understand that. He couldn't be too offended or anything.

Now he was just giving himself a headache.

"Thanks for listening to me talk about work. Again."

The song was coming to a close, anyway, switching to something more upbeat.

"You'll be alright getting home?" Tom checked. Harry flushed, though the concern was...sweet, he guessed.

"Yeah. Big bad Auror here. I'll just go find Ron and Hermione...apologize for leaving early and all that."

Tom laughed, stepping back.  
"Don't forget to mention it to your boss, too."

Harry nearly groaned, smiled and wandered away to let Tom dance with somebody else. He certainly had enough people eyeing him up.

He was almost at the door when it started.

* * *

The relish Tom had felt for the 'evening's entertainment' couldn't help but be soured and diminished by his conversation with Harry, and his only contemplations therein.

He was starting to wonder if this game wasn't getting too dangerous, because as much as he adored toying with the boy, he refused to go to prison for the thrill when he could just shift it onto a much more...private board.

Harry was more fun alive, but he'd kill him if it became necessary. He hoped Harry wouldn't be so selfish as to force him to that.

He'd been tracking his plants around the room quietly, and even with his mood darkened, he couldn't help but note how flawlessly everything else was going.

The music switched, to a rather cheery instrumental version of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' around the same time the bodies fell from the ceiling.

They weren't real, but people immediately started screaming and rushing to the edges of the room or towards the door.

Harry froze, pushed forwards again with the other Aurors, trying to calm the delicious panic in the room.

The boy dropped to examining the bodies, quickly figuring out they were merely very lifelike transfigurations. He'd considered using Inferi and having them walk in, because their terror over the lack of security would have been truly delightful, but they would have burned his art before they got the message. This was better.

That, didn't, however, mean that the twelve bodies didn't represent anything.

This time, however, he'd refrained from leaving his emotions on the scene, but the pinned butterfly corsages should indicate well enough, and it wasn't sloppy enough to be a copycat.

Such a shame he couldn't watch, but he was sure Harry would fill him in.

He stepped out along with everyone else, and set about doing his best to 'help'.

* * *

Harry felt the blood run out of his face as he dropped to his knees by the bodies. He had a moment of utter horror, and it took far too long for any of them to realize they weren't real. That they were transfigured.

Tonks had pointed it out, recognizing the signs of morphing and appearance changing.

The world was spinning. He couldn't breathe - picked up a note clearly addressed to him.

"What is it?" Robards demanded.

His fingers were so steady he could almost convince himself he didn't feel like he was going to pass out.

"Twelve bodies representing twelve upcoming murders in the next twelve days," Harry muttered, voice cracking. "He's given us their identities. And...what's going to happen to them and how they're going to be found."

"Why the hell would he do that?" Dawlish grunted. "Bit stupid. Now we can stop him."

"Unless he's trying to prove that we can't," Ron groaned. "That he'll get to them anyway."

"What does the note say?" Scrimgeour questioned, striding over to him to snatch it.

_Twelve days. Twelve gifts. Twelve lives at stake. _  
_You have everything you need to solve the puzzle._  
_Merry Christmas, love._

_The heart is nothing without the head._

* * *

_A/N: I had a whole fluffy bit involving suits and whatever else ball style involved. Then the plot ran away with me. Sorry. But hey, I'll fit those scenes in soon enough. It's somebody's birthday soon after all ;) And there are lots of other things involved in the next chapters, as much fun as just having each one be a mini mystery and case will be :P Enjoy! haha. Reviews much appreciated. Hope it wasn't disappointing._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

Harry wore out the floorboards in his office, striding up and down in the small area as if mere still couldn't contain the restless ferocity of his thoughts.

Twelve victims. Twelve days, and - if the song seared in the back of his mind, playing throughout the crime scene was to be believed, twelve days of Christmas.

A Partridge in a Pear Tree - Petunia Dursley

A Turtle Dove - Cho Chang

A French Hen - Fleur Delacour

A Colly bird - Marge Dursley

A Golden Ring - Dudley Dursley

A Geese laying - Vernon Dursley

A Swan Swimming - Nymphadora Tonks

A Maid milking - Molly Weasley

A Lady dancing - Gilderoy Lockhart

A Lord Leaping - Cedric Diggory

A Piper Piping - Barnabus Cuff

A Drummer Drumming - Rufus Scrimgeour

Today was the first day - Petunia Dursley, and there was an awful dryness to Harry's mouth. He hadn't talked to any of his relatives in years, so it unnerved to have them all dragged onto this list. Presumably for their connection to him.

Harry's heart pounded as he figured Voldemort probably meant some of these as a gift - a gift against the boredom and loneliness of Christmas, and against the childhood he'd endured with the Dursleys.

A Partridge in a pear tree. The cultural symbolism of a pear tree was strength, fortitude. A partridge...a partridge stole eggs from other bird's nests. He rubbed his eyes, paced up and down his office.

Whether he was supposed to be working on this case was a point of contention in the Department, considering he was useful but far too closely tied to the events. However, with both Scrimgeour and Tonks, targeted too, it was finally decided between blurred lines that it was all hands on deck for the next twelve dears.

Harry's head swum with the possibility of the death, of the horrible sense that he might not be able to save them. But he'd saved Tom, despite the price, so he had to believe he could stop these twelve murders happening too.

Security had been put to maximum, and all the potential victims had immediately been drawn into custody and tested for any poisons already in their system.

Harry hadn't gone to see them yet - specifically trying to avoid the Dursleys perhaps, and all the relics of his past scattered among the list. Bile clawed up in his throat.

If Harry could, without guilt, do so, this was one of those days where he would have handed in his immediate resignation. He'd been up all night, along with the rest of the Auror Department, surviving on caffeine and a nauseating worry.

All resources had been pulled for the crisis, and the world was starting to feel muggy and frayed at the edges. He'd done everything he could, of course, and every scrap of defence had gone into ensuring that nobody could get to the chosen few.

He scrubbed his eyes, wished he could do more now, immediately, but there was nothing.  
This was an unprecedented situation, which the department was struggling to handle.

Petunia would apparently be burnt alive. His eyes squeezed shut at the thought. They'd had a hard time identifying the fake body in the char, and though his childhood had been anything but the best he wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone.

Burning. Witch trials. Voldemort obviously somehow knew about his past, of the word 'freak' that could still make him flinch and the smothering hatred towards magical kind, now inverted without mercy.

If the threats were to be believed, she would be dead by the end of the day.

Whilst they waited, they tried to think some more on the matter of Voldemort's identity, because surely the monster couldn't kill anyone else or orchestrate murder from behind bars? Attacking the root was the best thing they could do, because then at least it couldn't spread anymore poison.

Somebody close to him. Somebody who knew his past. Somebody with influence, that all the previous victims would naturally trust. Somebody with some type of knowledge about human anatomy to be able to manipulate and remove organs so easily?

Hearts, brains, liver, tongues, strips off the back. There were all sorts of things, for all sorts of different effects, if he pooled every possible Voldemort case, suspected or confirmed, under one umbrella.

The butterflies were merely the most recent, the most sensationalized and branded by the papers.

He tried to think, because if he was doing something useful, he...

He should probably go down. If this went wrong, with the stifling number of things unsaid between himself and his aunt.

He determinedly flipped open another old case file, feeling sick.

Severus Snape, as a Potion's Master among other things, would have a working knowledge of anatomy. So would any healer or doctor, really, and some members of the Aurors. Their medical expert, for example.

Of course, that also put Tom firmly under suspicion too, even if Harry doubted he was really the killer. Still, he'd be neglecting his job if he ignored it, and he couldn't put blossoming...friendship over the lives of twelve people, including his family and friends.

Riddle was a doctor too, and would be more than capable of such high level surgery as required to remove organs, especially with the aid of magic. Though his medical education had no doubt been psychological, there was a lot of biology involved in such things too.

This was a bloody mess.  
He felt far older than he had any right to as he strode out the door.

"I want Severus Snape taken into custody," he started.

* * *

It would be a lie to say Petunia Dursley had never wanted anything to do with the Wizarding World. When Lily first got her letter, she'd been desperate to share in the magic, to join her sister on this adventure that sounded so much more exciting than anything her own existence had to offer.

When she was refused, when they explained that she could never be part of that world, the shift began. Wonder soured to a bitter resentment, which only hardened and congealed into something ugly in her chest.

Magic took her sister away from her, twice - first as children, plunged apart to two sides of the spectrum that it was impossible to connect on. Their parents had always loved Lily more, beautiful, magic Lily who married a rich husband whilst she plodded along and convinced herself that normal was better because that was the only way she could hope to be better too. Not inferior like their pitying smiles suggested when they looked at her dull eyes and limp hair, compared to flames and verdant jewels in her sister's eyes.

Then it was gone forever, with murder, and hatred in return.  
Nothing in the Wizarding World had ever bought her anything good.

Really, she should have expected something like this, but frightened thoughts had no patch on the reality of the secure white room around her, and being torn away from her ordinary life as if didn't even matter.

It galled her to simply be a piece in a madman's game, as if her life didn't matter except in reference to her thrice damned nephew.

Her husband and son were uncommonly silent next to her, Vernon's red faced blustering faded a long time ago as they were surrounded by those others doomed to be murdered in the safe room. She'd built a life, what right did these magic folk have to shove their way into her carefully kept home and tear that apart? Margery just seemed bewildered as to proceedings, having never even heard of magic before.

Why did this have to happen to her family? Petunia had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with any of them, with a reminder of her sister blinking up at her for so many years, but they hadn't listened. They'd used their power to force an intruder into their home, despite how unwelcome he was.

She just wanted to go home.  
She didn't want to die today - couldn't believe that she would - squeezed her eyes shut and breathed.

She wondered if they'd kill her like they killed Lily.

She'd heard that the house went up in flames.

When the first spark came, she barely even noticed but for Dudley's screaming.

* * *

Tom was a little surprised, but not shocked, to have Harry turn up at his freshly fixed and renovated office space.

The boy looked even more tired than when they had first met, where he'd seemed frayed around the edges, curling to crisp like the edges of a piece of paper set on fire.

Now, what had been bags under his eyes had sunken, like shadows gouged into his skin with an exhaustion that he'd been building for a while now. If he'd looked like one push would shatter him before, now he looked like he was already broken.

Harry really had no idea how fragile he seemed to other people, with his delicate glasses and those beautiful green eyes that screamed out his emotions even now, even if he'd mastered composing his tone and his body language otherwise.

Tom knew better than to think he was really broken. The ruins were smudged over him, debris from splinters and cracks and holes gouged here and there...but there was still that untouched core there which he so admired.

If Harry had been like the other victims, a weak mess after a tragic past, he would have just toyed with him and killed him a long time ago for the simple snipping of a loose string. But Harry had turned out to be a rather unexpected delight, when he'd finally come across the child again when he re-entered the wizarding world.

He hadn't seen it immediately, it was well hidden, but when the realization hit he couldn't shake it.  
Harry was like him.

So he would use the string to tug him closer first, satisfy his curiosity, walk the knife edge between conflicting desires because he'd always coveted trophies and exquisite things.

Whether in the end he would kill him or not, was still up in the air, and his indecision on the matter concerned himself too.

But nonetheless. He straightened, rearranged his features appropriately.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, lowly. "I'm in the middle of a session with another patient."

"I need you to come to the station."  
Ah. He could tell by Harry's face that he wasn't really accusing him of anything, this was a necessary precaution in a time of great stress. Utterly inconvenient, but...not unexpected.

"I should hope this is a formality?" he checked, either way, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course, whatever I can do to help confirm my innocence."

"Sorry." Harry sounded truly guilty about all of this, and maybe it said something that the boy had come alone, as if this was a social call rather than an arrest.

It was adorable.

"I'll just wrap up," he murmured. "I understand you're on a tight schedule, but..."

"Of course."  
Tom gestured to the waiting room, watched Harry sit and turned back to his patient in the office, letting the door shut - thinking how deceptively small Harry looked now, swallowed up by the soft sofa.

He would have loved to dress the boy up in fine materials and silks, expensive robes and suits - like the green he'd wore to the Christmas Party, so Slytherin in colour. Harry didn't know of Tom's own heritage, not really, but to see the grown up version of the child he'd intended to murder...who in other paths and prophecies...

He liked seeing Harry in his colours.

He looked the epitome of calm when he turned to his patient - Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Is there a problem?" she questioned, with those dark eyes fixed on him unflinchingly.

"I'm afraid something has come up, Miss Lestrange. Perhaps we could continue this at another more suitable time?"

She gave him a demure smile, that tipped mad at the edges, and stood up.  
"Of course, Doctor. Was that Auror Potter at the door?"

"Yes."

"Dreadful what happened at the ball," she said lightly, a gleam in her eyes. He could almost have smiled, tipped his head, but remained impassive.

"The worst."

She gave a small, delighted laugh and moved away.

Aside from Harry, she was probably his favourite client...in her own way, of course.

He turned back to Harry, after straightening his sleeves and smoothing out any creases in his suit, expression suitably serious.

He was dying to make a handcuff comment, he really was, but considering the circumstances that would be rather suspect and merely followed silently, accepting Harry's arm for side-along apparition to the ministry.

A few people glanced at him as they entered the Auror Department, with his hands secured neatly in front of him. It was more show, than anything that would realistically hold him in his power, but he saw no reason to give away all of his advantages.

Instead, he sat firmly in Harry's sight in his office, as the panic of his crimes buzzed frantically around him in white noise, let his eyes move over the pictures on the wall.

Like with his own snapshots with the polyjuiced Crouch, Harry's office was practically a homage to him. It was very flattering - all the photos and strings and notes that tracked a growing obsession on the part of the victim too. He could have given a pleased smile.

The only thing missing off the board was a name and a face. He'd seen a dour Potion's Master here now too, and the Prophet would no doubt be giving an announcement on the situation too.

He glanced at the clock, watched the minutes of the first day tick down.  
Petunia Dursley. He devoured Harry's obvious distraction on the matter, watching him pace.

Getting this close was dangerous and risky, but he found it far more rewarding than distance. Nothing could beat that worried lip, those flickering eyes and tangled hair.

Harry was starting to reflect the ugly mess he was inside. Tom found it beautiful.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked. "Seeing as I'm here anyway."

"Seeing as you're a suspect, I probably shouldn't," Harry muttered. Tom watched him carefully, knew he couldn't push, however much he was dying to pick the other's brain on events.

He simply gave a nod, went back to a book he'd picked up, and watching Harry pace up and down the room.

It was only about ten minutes later that Harry gave an exasperated huff, flopping down.  
He raised his brows, more concerned with the fact that the first stage would be starting soon.

It was very soon midnight, and nobody had died yet, after all.

"Do you think I should go and see them?" Harry asked, out of the blue. "I probably should."  
Tom blinked - figured that he should be flattered that the other thought he was a mind reader. Well, he was, but it wasn't quite so simple as comics would make people believe.

"See who?"

Harry glanced at him, took his glasses off, wiped them in a way that was becoming rather familiar when he didn't particularly want to look or meet anyone's gaze.

"My relatives. The Dursleys. Voldemort put them on his twelve day execution list."

"I'm sorry."

He could almost taste the issues bubbling beneath the surface, the ugly splinters of a broken childhood, and he almost felt possessive knowing that even indirectly he was the cause.

He'd killed Harry's parents, and thus claimed the boy's life in some way as he'd own for the hand he'd had in shaping it.

Harry shook his head jerkily at the words, the meaningless apology that changed nothing about the situation, half stood, only for alarms to start screeching and the aurors to start running.

Definitely time.

Harry was out the door in a second, and he followed - knowing he was even more secure in his 'supposed' innocence than before. The other's eyes were wild.

"What's happening?"

The only thing they caught sight of was Petunia Dursley on flames as the team rushed in too late to try and save her.

Tom hid a smile, and drank in his reaction.

Harry sagged, eyes squeezing shut.

Then he'd thrown his desk across the office, magic flaring, and _screamed_.

* * *

_A/N: Well, next chapters are going to be hectic. I admit I haven't decided how tragic it's going to be yet :P But yes. I'm not sure if 'hope you enjoyed it' is the right word, considering how dark this story is, but yeah...thanks for the reviews :)_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

Harry stared numbly at the floor.

He was aware of the rest of the Aurors moving around him, of orders exchanged and of people tentatively enquiring if he was okay.

It washed in and out of his ears like white-noise, seeming so very far away.  
He should have gone to see her. He could have stopped it. Instead he'd been a coward, unable to face the scars of his childhood and maybe Voldemort had known the one thing that would freeze him all along.

He could face things in the magical world far more easily, he could walk up to a mass murdering serial killer without flinching...but to stare back at his own memories and the shadow of a helpless child?

He'd never wanted to look at that again. He'd thought it was all shoved back into the cupboard under the stairs where he would never have to think of those years of his life again.

He felt the warm weight of a hand against his shoulder where he was on his knees, magic still raging around him, even in its exhausted state. Tom. He drew in a shuddering breath.

"_How_?" he croaked, "how the hell did he do it? We had the place secured. We checked for any spells before hand! She was supposed to be safe." The words were practically a hiss by the end. He looked up, staring hard, trying desperately to think for answers.

"He got Scrimgeour to do it," Dawlish muttered, sounding ashamed. Harry wanted to crumble. The other victims. Of course.

The Ministry had very limited safe rooms, and so whilst they hadn't put all of the targeted in the same room, there had been some. They'd made the decision that, just in case, having someone magical in a room with muggles would make them safer. That if Voldemort tried to break in, he couldn't just murder them so easily without a fight.

Harry's eyes squeezed shut. So they'd put an Auror in with them. His boss.  
Oh god.

He tried to force himself to concentrate, around the scramble, around the aching hollowness of _heshouldhavehadthatconversatio_n. In a perfect world, where people made the right decisions on such things, he would have got down, and whatever the outcome of the day he would have got some sense of closure.

Now there was just a gaping wound, which could be stitched, but would never fully fade, lingering with the what ifs.

"I want to see the tape."

"Mate," Ron began.

"_I want to see the tape and the crime scene_."

They showed him the tape first, so that he knew what to expect. He watched carefully for any signs, anything of note that could help him identity Voldemort once and for all.

There was no warning, nothing. Scrimgeour's eyes just suddenly glazed, and the next second he'd cast a spell at his Aunt, and she was burning whilst he watched.

They'd immediately separated all of the targets to different rooms now, but Harry doubted Voldemort would pull the same trick twice. It wasn't his style.

No, he'd already proved how easily he could slip past any defenses that they made, even when they thought they were safe, they were just as exposed and vulnerable as before.

There was no rush of emotions in the crime scene, none except his own anyway and Harry didn't like to think he was disappointed, that maybe some part of him had desperately been seeking the balm of Voldemort's happiness to temporarily soothe the sorrow in his own heart.

That was just sick.

For the first time, he was honestly worried that the serial killer would win, that they wouldn't catch him, and of what he himself was turning into if the only solace he could currently find was in the disturbed mind of the one tormenting him in the first place.

The air stank of ash, and char, and he couldn't breathe.  
He wanted to scream all over again.

But he had come to rectify a previous conclusion of his.  
Voldemort was powerful, and not just in position. Magically. But that didn't take away from his belief that he was also powerful in position.

Which narrowed things down a bit more. And it didn't cut Tom or Snape out as suspects either.

His first thought was that it proved their innocence actually - that was what the rest of the department seemed to think. But. But...

Well, it didn't really prove anything.

The other Aurors were working under the assumption that a spell powerful enough to overpower Scrimgeour, would have had to have an on the spot trigger that brought the dormant compulsion out, rather than one that activated on its own. There was no obvious stimuli after all, no clock in the room or light to indicate what time of day it was, and no trigger words had been spoken in the man's vicinity.

So it would, admittedly, seem logical that Voldemort himself did something long distance to trigger it, and both Tom and Snape had been under their watch and nothing like that had happened with them, so it couldn't be them.

But still, Harry couldn't help doubting...

There was something nagging at his mind, something he couldn't place, itching a warning if only he could decipher it.

He suspected Voldemort was, instead, more powerful than they could ever have imagined.

But he had no evidence, just that something in his gut that he couldn't shake.

Because Voldemort was close to him, and he was fed up.  
He was starting to get the awful feeling that lines of red tape and paperwork weren't going to help catch this monster, and even if he hated it, that they needed him to catch Voldemort. To do more than just observe the emotions and make comments about intentions on crime scenes.

He didn't need to just reluctantly understand, he had to claw close so he could rip the man's bloody heart out for all he'd done.

He had to use the mind connection.  
The thought had occurred to him before, of course. It was like not wanting to see the Dursleys in his fear of his own path - he was terrified of the connection, for the dark places it could take him and the very real possibility that he'd get lost in the shadows and not walk out again.

But he was already lost and strung up helplessly in a spider web of shadows, especially if his nightmares were to believe.

He wondered if Voldemort was aware that in this last attack, in this attempt to break him for good under the crushing weight of guilt, he'd revealed his weakness to him and allowed him to fashion it into a weapon instead of something that froze him on the spot.

He was craving the emotions, the taste of glee in his mouth and the rush of power Voldemort's feelings gave him. Maybe the monster thought he'd shy away from that, certainly, he wanted to. He'd been running away from it for so long now.

It was time to stop running. Voldemort had caught up with him anyway.  
So he would hold still and fight, instead of trying to race the man.

As he stared down at the charred spot on the floor, he felt his expression steel with determination.

He'd had enough of being the victim.

* * *

Vernon knew that many of these freaks looked down on him, scorned him, hated him even with as much vitriol as he despised them.

But he'd never asked to get involved with them. There hadn't even be the opportunity to say goodbye to his beloved Tuny, she was just scorched on the spot by the freak supposed to protect them.

The British Government would never have allowed that to happen. These Authorities were useless, and yet still had the gall to condescend him and act like they were better.

Dudley was white faced beside him, eyes wide with a horror he should never have had to witness, and red-rimmed with tears they'd sworn to keep him from ever having to shed.

He was their child, grown boy or not. Part of him wanted to stiffly snap at the boy to stop snivelling, that such a show of weakness would only encourage the freaks to attack them more, but he didn't have the heart to.

He knew he'd never hated Harry Potter more.  
He should have killed the boy when he had the chance, wished the brat had died rather than ever coming from them, because he was poison.

A letter had explained that the boy was special, but he didn't think any child could ever be more special than his own, and that normal was better than white walls and his wife's screams still echoing in his ears.

Maybe he'd had some skeptical hope that they'd save him and his family at the start, but it was gone now. They cared more about their own kind anyway. The fact they were chosen as mere puppets in somebody else's show screamed just how unimportant their lives were considered in the grand scheme of things.

"Is that's what's gonna happen to us?" Dudley asked.

And he didn't have a single answer he could give.

* * *

Harry felt more composed sitting at his session with Tom.

He'd been discharged for the night, rather forcibly at that, with the comment that he was absolutely no help to anyone in his current state.

It didn't hurt any less, and the guilt was still there and he doubted he'd ever shake that either, but there was a sense of calm that had been lacking in the last few months.

Tom was watching him silently, perhaps waiting for him to talk, head tilted to one side.  
Maybe he could tell something was different, Harry didn't know.

"I'm going to kill him," Harry murmured.

"Voldemort." It wasn't a question. He should probably feel concerned about admitting such a thing, but he was past the point of caring.

He didn't deign the statement with a response, eyes dark.

"I don't care if it's what he wants," he bit out. "He's dead."

"If it's not too insensitive of me to bring it up at such a terrible time...you do not seem to have the best relationship with your family?"

"No. We hate each other. Maybe that makes it worse. It's just...unfinished."  
He didn't know how to express it, didn't want to talk about it. Talking with Tom was remarkable for helping him clear his thoughts, but it hardly meant anything right now. He just felt frustrated sitting here, in the cool office, with all that was going on. "I'm going to talk to my Uncle tomorrow. I figured I should give him some time first. As much time as he can have, given the circumstances," he continued.

Tom continued to study him, that soothing point of silence and calm.

"I can't just let more people die either. I know - it's different because he was more distanced, it didn't feel like I was killing her too this time. It was too indirect."

His thoughts were a mess. He had his one piece, his shard of resolve to see this finished, but everything else was crumbling to dust around it. The only difference was that he no longer cared.

Maybe he'd been stupid to believe he'd survive this, that Voldemort would ever really let him go after that first failed attempt to kill him.

"Why do you suppose a serial killer would bother to try and kill a one year baby?" he asked, eyes distant. "I wasn't his normal preference. Neither was my mother. So why?"

"Only Voldemort can answer that, I'm afraid," Tom said quietly. Harry hummed.

"He doesn't like loose strings. I'm one of them. I'm the gold ticket victim, you could say. Everything suggests all of this, all of these murders and games, are simply a countdown to my own death. But it's been over twenty years, so why hasn't he done it yet? It's not that he lacks the opportunity, today proved that well enough. I've had so many theories on that one."

He wasn't even sure if he was talking to Tom now, or just to himself, but the other's eyes didn't leave him for a second.

"He wants to convert me. To change me. To make me like him, but in a man of tied knots, something must have inspired that in the first place. Something in our connection. He wants to be understood, and I understand him." His voice softened, even as it held no mercy. "It's not as contrived as love, I suppose we've known each other too long for that. But I do think he's lonely, and believes I'm the only one capable of understanding the full scale of his vision - whether willingly or not."

He dropped his eyes away from the other, twisting his hands in his lap.

"And yet...he tried to kill me before any of this. It was already a break in the pattern he is showing. Of course, he's not tied so simply to any patterns or compulsions of murders, but it's obvious that he still has his favourites. So what caused the initial break? I can't find out if I don't know who he is, and yet that choice may be the key behind who he is and all of this."

He glanced up, caught a hint of something in Tom's eyes, before it was gone and vanished for the normal mask his psychiatrist wore.

And where had the word 'mask' even come from for Tom's face?

"You know," he continued, to the silence. "We always talk about me. We never talk about you. They say people become psychiatrists so that they can diagnose and fix themselves. What happened to you, Tom?"

It was the first time he'd ever seen the man without a comeback, and he gave a thin smile.

"This is your time, Harry," Riddle replied eventually.

"You keep saying that but it means nothing," Harry retorted, a vicious lack of patience in his voice, everything squirming together until his hea wasd pounding. So much data, so much blood behind his eyes and indirectly on his hands too, and no sleep but for those dreams that were beginning to haunt his waking moments as well as his nights in an entirely different way... "but you don't do anything. You give people the tools to fix themselves, you said that yourself, and if they can't you just sit there in your cosy world and your fancy bloody suit and watch them crumble!"

He was practically screaming the words by the end, and maybe he was furious with himself and his own inaction in his Aunt's death too.

"Harry-"

"You may not be Voldemort, but in some way you're as bad as him," Harry continued, relentlessly, feeling his breathing beginning to increase. "You just sit there like a stone, whilst people give you their trust and their problems, and just chuck it back at them with some bad instructions."

"I have an extremely high success rate with my clients, actually." It was the first time that Harry had ever heard such sharpness in Tom's voice. "I believe that is why you were sent to me, and because you didn't want someone poking around your head with the hammer and nails, believing they had some magical cure to your problems."

Harry's jaw clenched, eyes flashing. He couldn't help but feel betrayed by the comment, and maybe the truth in it.

He felt frustrated and he didn't know how to articulate any of what he wanted or needed, outside of Voldemort's imminent capture.

Tom's expression softened again, as the other stood up from his remote chair and moved over to him, placing a hand over his, kneeling in front of him.

"If you want, or need, more help from me than the limited analysis you have thus far allowed me to give, all you need to do is ask," he murmured, ducking his head to hold Harry's gaze where he'd at first slid it away. His finger caressed the pulse point at his wrist. "I can up your treatment, if you give your consent to that."

Harry swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut, torn - needing someone to stitch the ruined material of his facade back together again, because he was scared if Voldemort kept ripping and slashing and tearing chunks of it out and smashing it, he was eventually going to get to the center core.

If that happened, he had no delusions of victory, whatsoever.  
It was currently the only thing untouched and keeping him standing.

He drew in a deep breath, opened his eyes again, nodded, half wanted to run.

Did he trust Tom? Despite everything?

"Yes."

He needed all the help he could get. He'd always thought it a stupid myth that men had to face monsters alone.

* * *

**_A/N: Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed (*smirk*) the chapter, even if it's more of a transitional chapter. But I don't care. I think 12 days of potential murders with no 'break' chapter is a bit too much :P That, and I feel it's disrespectful to the characters to just kill them and not linger on the consequences. I don't like doing that. I'm aware this fic is very violent, and dark, and I'm trying not to trivialize any of that or make it gratuitous, because I don't think that's right._**

**_ On other matters, got a question for you - how dark do you guys conceivably/hypothetically mind this story becoming? Because even if its in implication or subtext, I'm starting to get a feeling that I could potentially go very dark. But I also don't want to traumatize anyone, or make it unreadable. So yeah. What are your guys limits? I know I have some, and dark does not necessitate graphic, but anyway?_**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17:

Hermione steeled a breath, before knocking on the the door of Doctor Riddle's office, trying not to feel intimidated.

She'd read all about the man before recommending Harry to him, of course. He'd emerged back into society about a fair few years ago, after taking time to travel abroad during which he studied at a Wizarding Healer Academy in Venice, before branching out into his own work in the art. He'd been a top student at Hogwarts too, before his travels, and Head Boy - so he was obviously very responsible, and the references he had from colleagues abroad only proved that further.

Despite his young age, he was considered prestigious and learned.

Harry had stopped talking to her and Ron about anything. Maybe because they weren't under a confidentiality agreement...she cursed herself for the petty, insecure thought.

Harry had never talked to them much before, either, not without weeks and weeks of coaxing. Even then, she always suspected he didn't tell them everything. He didn't want to worry them, and, perhaps realistically, they couldn't understand everything however hard they tried. Not really.

She supposed she should feel relieved that she couldn't understand, but she still wished she could, if only so he didn't have to bear such a heavy load solely on his own shoulders.

That was what Riddle had been for - she'd thought that if anyone could help her best friend, it would be him. He was different in his fields as well, so she'd rightly assumed he could get Harry to put up with him without just storming out in the first five minutes.

But to put it simply; she was worried.

The door swung open, and his eyes moved over her for a moment, before his head tilted and he offered a singularly charming smile.

"Miss Granger..." he raised his brows. "This is an unexpected pleasure. May I help you with something?"

She'd only met him once before, and most of their correspondence in arranging Harry's psychiatry sessions had been done via mail. It was something of a special circumstance, after all, to skip a rather long waiting list for the psychiatrist's services.

Even with Harry's position, and the necessity of the arrangement, it had only been luck that she'd even got the initial booking for him - though she'd never told Harry that. She didn't think his feeling pressured about the sessions would have helped first meetings at all.

Neville Longbottom had dropped out, taking an extended holiday to the Danum Valley, in Malaysia, to get some reprieve and write his book about the rare plants found there. And so, Harry's space had opened.

"I was wondering if we could talk?" she tried joking weakly, before sobering. "It's about Harry. I'm worried about him. Are you free at all?"

He gave another smile.

"I was just going to have some lunch. Please, come in. Have you ever tried stuffed peppers before?"

She was forced to shake his head, as he immediately moved over to where he had his lunch set out delicately on his desk, and flushed.

"Oh, I couldn't-"

"I made too much, and it would be rude of me to dine alone."

He conjured a plate with an elegant flick of his wrist, setting it down in front of her and levitating some of the stuffed peppers on it, before pulling over a chair so she could sit. He paused to smoothly take her coat and set it aside, before tucking her in.

"Thank you." It really did look and smell absolutely amazing - a roasted red pepper, stuffed with rice, herbs and meat which seemed to be pork or lamb. She took a bite at his gesture, swallowed. "It's delicious. You're an excellent cook. What type of meat is this?"

"Lamb," he replied, neatly. "With some flavouring I discovered during my travels in Asia."

That would explain the slightly different taste, not immediately familiar as lamb.

He ate in silence, his eyes fixed on her.

"You realize that I cannot discuss Harry's treatment due to patient confidentiality," he stated, finally, voice barely above a murmur. "Though I understand that you may be concerned about him, given recent developments. Has he not talked to you about any of it?"

Hermione gave a small, helpless shrug, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

"I've barely seen him, and he doesn't really seem to talk to anyone. He's so...isolated. I...can't help but fear he's starting to let Voldemort in, what with recent developments. Can you at least tell me if you're getting anywhere with him and if he'll be okay? If the treatment is working?"

He took another measured bite of his meal.

"I'm doing everything I can, Miss Granger, rest assured," he said, sympathetically. She drew in a breath, nodded.

"I know - I know - it's just - he doesn't talk. I mean, he didn't talk to us much before, but now he has you...sorry, I don't mean to cause any offence. I'm glad you're helping him, I just-is there anything I can do?"

She heard the door go again, and he paused.

"My," he murmured. "I am popular today...if you could excuse me for just a moment..."

He rose, moving around her and heading for the door. She twisted her head, couldn't see who was there between the psychiatrist's back, and the door. There was a flash of blond hair, before he'd stepped out into his waiting room and shut the door behind him.

She sat there feeling like an awkward intruder for several long moments - ate the last bites of her meal, swallowed.

She glanced at the door as the minutes ticked by, and shifted restlessly. Her lunch break would be over soon, and she'd have to return to work.

She hadn't even got anything; though admittedly she wasn't sure what she'd been looking for, except information that she knew was confidential. She didn't mean to pry, she didn't want to - she just...wanted to help. Somehow.

She felt so useless just watching Harry struggle with everything. When they were kids, she'd been able to help a bit, but the older they got the more Harry withdrew.

Her eyes scanned over Riddle's desk, pausing at the sight at the sight of a slim leather-bound sketchbook. She flipped it open idly, curious, and not sure what to do with herself.

It had been that, or go and stalk his bookcases...

She hadn't expected him to be a good drawer, but there was an amazing memory present in the sketches he had. There was a Paris skyline, a grim looking building on a street she didn't recognize, a full blown sketch of Hogwarts from the lake.

Harry.

They were quick sketches on a page, but the detail was there and...why were there drawings of Harry in Riddle's sketchbook? Not that there was anything explicitly wrong with that, but it did seem a bit creepy. To her, at least.

There was nothing...they were innocent enough sketches, nothing dodgy about them, so she didn't know why something was nagging at her.

The next page had those familiar green eyes again, unnervingly broken in the sketch, with a small hint of steel, downcast.

She couldn't help but ridiculously feel like she was intruding onto something, and the next second a hand had snapped heavily over hers, shutting the book.

Hermione's eyes startled up, rearing back. Riddle was standing over her, no expression on his face but something in his gaze which settled uneasily in her stomach and the next second, everything had gone black.

* * *

There was so much work to be doing - not a moment's rest, with another day.

Cho Chang. Two Turtle Doves. Symbols of love.

He'd never really dated Cho, though she'd been his first crush.

He remembered what Tom had said so long ago now, however much it had been intended simply to provoke, about Voldemort being in love with him.

Though the intensity of the man's - if he could even be called that, and maybe he had to be called that, or the task of catching him would simply be impossible - emotions bled constantly into his head, blurring like wet paint with his own feelings, he wondered if the other was even capable of love.

Obsession, certainly. Love? He didn't know. Perhaps a very selfish, cruel sort of love, which coveted and abused.

Then again, in Voldemort's thoughts, he probably honestly thought he was 'freeing' Harry from something, and generally acting well.

He didn't know.

He stepped into the holding room they were keeping Dudley in.

He'd talked to Vernon already, if it could be called talking when his Uncle had simply punched him in the face the second he walked in - something cracked and ugly and insane in his eyes.

He'd let the blow hit - maybe feeling like he deserved some penance, as if childhood hadn't always been a repeated apology for his audacity to still be alive.

Dudley was staring at the floor when he arrived - didn't look up even as Harry let the door shut behind him with a dull thud.

His eyes were red and swollen with tears, hammy hands clenched white on his knees and shoulders slumped.

In adulthood, he looked uncannily like his father.

Harry supposed people would say the same about himself though.

His mouth dried around all the things he should say, or could say.

"Are all wizards as powerful as he is?" his cousin asked quietly, nearly startling him. Harry swallowed.

"I would consider him above average, though I don't know who he is."

"Voldemort." It was a statement, more than anything, and Harry didn't know what to do with it - with all the years and the bruises, now that they'd settled in the room, unwilling to be shaken so quickly. His fists curled, flexed.

"Yeah," he said, lately.

"But you could have killed us any time in your childhood. He was in your head then too. You'd talk about him, sometimes."

Harry's eyes widened with surprise.

"What do you mean I talked about him?"

He didn't remember this.

"M-mum told me. Once. When you were away at that school. After fifth year, when you saved me from the Dementors. We had some of your freaks come around then too, trying to explain the situation. Like that Dumblydore bloke. We talked about it, a bit. It's one of the reasons mum always hated you so much, aside from the fact that magic's never really done us any good."

Harry's brow furrowed.

"But what did I say? How old was I?"

"Apparently you were just a little kid. Before five. You'd start...hissing oddly, like you were possessed and talking tongues or something. Mumble his name. Say he was your friend-"

Harry had been distracted now.

"I hissed? What do you mean talking tongues?" he demanded.

"To like, snakes. At the zoo. One of the reasons mum and dad never took you anywhere, according to her, and then as time went on it was easier just crushing the whole thing. I mean, I'm sure there was more to it than that but-"

"-I talked to snakes at the zoo?"

"Yeah. Don't all your kind do weird things like that?" Dudley shuddered - perhaps thinking of all the weird things that would be happening to him.

Harry swallowed, head spinning. That couldn't be possible, unless...  
"I-oh my god."

There was no Slytherin in the Potterline. At all. So if it didn't come from them, a hereditary condition and his mum hadn't been unfaithful...

"Oh my fucking god," he repeated, hands going to his hair, eyes wild. Dudley withdrew a little, seeming defensive. "I-I need to go. I-I'm sorry about all of this. And Aunt Petunia. I mean-" it was difficult to think straight.

Was that the hissing he'd heard in second year?

He couldn't breathe.

Voldemort, whoever he was...was a Slytherin Heir.

And there was no time to research with this twelve days thing!

He fled the room.

He needed to talk to Hermione.

And Voldemort.

* * *

Tom looked up as Harry practically raced into his office.  
He'd been...excited for this session all week, if he was honest, ever since Harry gave his consent to more...alternative methods.

He'd been released from the Ministry holding cells after twenty four hours, with the obvious consensus that he couldn't have done it, and been busy and playing catch up with his clients ever since.

It didn't help that Miss Granger decided to pop over.

Of course, he'd always felt rather possessive over his 'golden ticket victim', as Harry unwittingly referred to himself, but upon actually getting to know the boy as an adult again, that had only grown.

Harry theorized that Voldemort would kill him if he stepped out of the perceived boundaries of their 'relationship', and maybe that was true - in all honesty, he hadn't decided either or. Harry could be perfect, and if he got bored he might kill him anyway, it all depended...

But he found it fascinating to see what Harry was really like, especially compared to the idea and concept he himself had before.

He wondered if Miss Chang was dead yet.

"I need to cancel our session today," was the first thing Harry said, before he could speak. "Things came up. With the Voldemort case. And I still have another eleven potential victims I'm not willing to just watch die."

He was immediately turning out again. Tom's eyes narrowed.

If 12 days of Christmas hadn't led to his consent, he might be rather annoyed with his own plans right now.

But he supposed he could wait.

Still...

"What's happened?" he asked, affecting a look of concern and taking several advanced steps after Harry.

Harry's eyes were still wild from the day before, still gleaming like that inner strength had been shoved out with a steely vengeance.

Harry shook his head distractedly, wired, practically jittering with restlessness.

"I need to talk to him before Cho dies."

Now that was interesting...

"You intend to contact Voldemort? Are you sure that's wise?"

Harry said nothing, but he could practically hear the repeat of Harry's unwillingness not to let more victims suffer. Tom felt a slow smile cross his lips.

Just as well he didn't have to have a session right this second after all.

Though really it was a toss up on which one he would have preferred - a potential deal, as Harry would no doubt angle for, or his plans.

He saw no reason not to have both.  
Harry might not be wanting his control and responsibility much longer, and he would be more than happy to step in and take care of that for the boy.

He moved back to his desk, and half an hour later he felt the tickle on his brain as Harry tried to contact him via their connection, offered a response before the boy could.

"_If you kill three of them, I'll spare the rest_."

* * *

_A/N: _Any ideas what Tom has planned for his 'session'? Do you think Harry will take the offer given to him? :P Hope you liked the chapter. Not my best, but these chapters are necessary...

Watched Red Dragon again the other day too, so yay.

PS: Finally started actually posting on A03 - archive of our own users/ The_Fictionist /works  
if you're interested. So far Butterfly Heart is on there, with Folie a Deux and Siren Song. Also a fair few BBC Sherlock oneshots, predominantly Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, if that's anything any of you are interested in :)


	18. Chapter 18

Harry's head was spinning, even as he closed the link, feeling the smugness and the relish still clinging to his mind from the other.

Four dead overall, three by his own hand - and eight would be saved.

That was over half! Surely that meant it was his obligation to do this?

Voldemort's sly question if he'd got a taste for murder still rung through his head, bringing bile into his throat...even as the forced emotions spun through his head too. Voldemort's delight at murder had always been one of the most clearest of transfers, splicing with his own nausea, but undeniably the happiest he felt when his own life was just one bullet after another.

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, breathing harsh.  
The choice was the worst - to try and save them all and ignore the deal, with no guarantee of success and just the promise of bloody retribution if he failed, to take the deal and save eight but then have to decide who died.

He suspected he knew who Voldemort _wanted_ him to pick, and the Christmas gift the murderer no doubt thought himself as kindly offering.

A chance of revenge, a forcible closure over years of bruises and a black eye that swelled on his face even now.

He could pay the Dursleys back for all the years of suffering.

In Voldemort's depictions, Aunt Marge was torn apart by wild dogs - and surely the serial killer would not be able to pull off such a set up?

He supposed the elegance to the other was in the challenge of pulling all of these crimes off, under all the best security the ministry could offer.

His mind scrambled, and he wanted more than anything to just curl up in a ball.

He wished someone else would make the decision for him, that he could just surrender up the control he clung to so tightly, because at least then it might feel slightly less like his fault.

Why was Voldemort his responsibility? Because he had the debatably bad luck to survive the man? He'd never asked to be the hero.

Currently Tom was the only one keeping the weight of Voldemort from crushing down on him completely, and with Voldemort's previous actions he couldn't help but think of how fragile such an...alliance was. How easily broken and snatched away.

Voldemort had already killed Sirius, and maybe made it perfectly evident that anyone Harry was close to in any capacity was fair game.

He didn't even need to kill off Ron and Hermione, when he had to be aware that Harry knew the threat his very presence could cause.

But it was just so difficult to go it alone. Sometimes, like when he gave Tom his consent, he felt maybe he didn't have to face the monsters alone, but right now he felt like he was drowning in open water with no one else but the hands pulling him under.

Tom tried to understand, maybe came the closest, but it left his stomach rolling that Voldemort understood him best. He knew which buttons to press, which strings to pull.

They were connected. More than he could ever have imagined, if the Parseltongue could be believed.

He just needed to figure out who the Slytherin Heir was.

Maybe he would ask Tom, the man knew everyone's bloody dirty secrets with his job - but he probably couldn't say under client confidentiality, and he was supposed to be a suspect anyway.

Tom and Snape had both been Slytherins though.

He wondered if it was worth just diving into that investigation, hoping that he could catch the bastard before anyone could die either way.

Rather than making that terrible, terrible choice.

But the day was almost over, and, when it was - Cho would be dead, and the longer he waited, the less he saved.

Voldemort had made it pretty damn clear this was a one night deal too; cranking up the pressure until Harry was wound up so tight he felt like the smallest push would just shatter him.

He should have seen this coming. He knew what the other wanted from him after all.  
He just felt so tired and sick.

It had been over seventy two hours since he last slept, not wanting to face the confusing shifts of his dreams which did nothing to leave him refreshed.

He swallowed, shuddered.

He could try and trick the deal. Fake deaths. Save them all. Relocate them.

But if it went wrong...god, if it went wrong, he'd as good as murdered all of them.

He clenched his fists. Wished they'd shake. Even now his hands refused to shake, though he felt like he was quivering uncontrollably all over.

Everyone expected him to know what to do, to win, to always be able to fight back because that was his job. Maybe if his hands would shake, they'd be able to see he couldn't do it, and he wouldn't feel so guilty about the thought of an extremely early retirement.

His breathing was ragged with panic. He squeezed his eyes shut. Pretended this was war.  
Made his choice.

* * *

Tom had almost half been expecting the knock on his door, even if it was past 3am.

Harry was standing in the stark light of his porch, white as sheet, looking like he might pass out or throw up at any second.

His hands were covered with blood, and there was some smudged on his cheek too. He looked like he could be a corpse, he was so pale. It was beautiful.

Tom blinked, entranced for a second, as Harry stared at him helplessly, before snapping into action and grabbing Harry's upper arm to yank him into the house and shut the door behind him.

He kept his relish as contained as he could.  
"Tell me what happened," he ordered. Harry just shook his head, a whimper caught somewhere in his throat, eyes blown wide.

He could feel the emotions lapping at him - such terror, and self-loathing, confusion, triumph, resolve and the splintering of it too. It almost overwhelmed him.

For the first time, it felt to him that the positions were reversed. He'd stepped into Harry's mind and crime scene, rather than the other way around.

Harry's eyes were blind, as he stumbled with his movements, hands held away from his body.

He couldn't help but wonder how the boy had done it, to get that much blood on his clothes and self. Not that he particularly minded.

He tugged the other into the bathroom, stripping him off his soaked shirt in a few quick movements, reaching for the belt buckle when Harry didn't protest, gaze distant and somewhere else entirely.

It was only when he was standing shivering in his boxers that Harry seemed to come to himself at all, blinking as if waking from a dream. A nightmare.

Their gazes locked for a few seconds, before Harry's slid away.

"Shower," Tom instructed. "I'll leave some fresh clothes outside the door. Then we'll talk."

"I don't want to talk. Not this time. I just - I just want - need-" Harry didn't finish, swallowed. "You said you'd help me. You promised! You-"

"Shh, shh..." he reached out, grabbing Harry's arms tightly again as the boy's breathing picked up, as he choked and stumbled over the words and air. "I will. I will. You'll tell me what happened, and I'll fix it."

"I thought you didn't fix things and just gave others the tools to fix it themselves?" Harry mumbled. He smiled softly, cupped the other's cheek to nudge his eyes up.

So near broken now.  
All it would take now was a push, he could reach out, grab that currently exposed core in his hands - squeeze and twist. He let his attention brush over it instead, like his hands grazed against Harry's bare skin.

"I help my friends. Now shower. Unless you need help getting the blood off your hands? I'll be leaving the door unlocked..."

Harry wasn't throwing up this time. He seemed to have gone beyond that, flittering in and out of a dissociating state. There was absolutely no way, from the perspective of a psychiatrist, that he could leave the boy alone now. He was too unpredictable on what he'd do.

Now he just got to decide if he wanted to tip him off the edge of reality he was teetering on, or ground him to face his consequences. He felt a glorious rush of power go through him, and something in Harry's eyes flickered. Harry would probably be happier insane.

The boy stared at him for several long moments, as if forgetting to flinch from his eyes, forehead pinched, before he just seemed to sag and turned for the shower.

* * *

Harry hadn't been able to do it.

He just - not three of them. Maybe he was a coward, or weak, for not being able to kill to save lives.

He'd be a terrible soldier, but that was still what everyone seemed to expect from him.

He let his Uncle's blood pour down the drain of Tom's gleaming white shower.

He felt too tainted to be in the man's house, with two murders now under his belt, but he hadn't known who else to turn to.

He didn't want to see the disgusted horror on Ron and Hermione's faces. Didn't want to burden them, bring a serial killer to their door.  
Killing a criminal copy cat murderer was very different to essentially choosing a victim, carefully disabling the security on the holding room, and...

His chest heaved, retched, but he had nothing to throw up.

His knees felt like they could crumble beneath him.

Even when the water was so hot it burned against his skin, leaving it red and raw, he still didn't feel clean. He stood there until the water ran to ice instead, barely noticing the difference.

He needed to get a grip, but however much he was able to keep his cool during a murder, during work, when it was over and all he had left was what he'd done, it was just so much more difficult.

He didn't want to get a grip if it meant looking in the mirror with the realization he didn't even recognise the man staring back anymore.

He distantly heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"Harry, you've been in there for half an hour. Indicate your still alive and okay, or I'm going to come in."

Harry stared at the door listlessly, unable to even get out a word.

If he opened his mouth, he'd start screaming, and then he had a horrible feeling he wouldn't be able to stop.

He was a psychiatrist's dream date already for experimentation on his messed up mind. If he started screaming they'd lock him up for good. Maybe they'd lock him up already.

He'd got Dudley and Aunt Marge out of there. Faked it, gambled - because if Voldemort found out, then they were all dead and it would be the fault of his own inability to pull through.

He just...he'd looked at Dudley, and his cousin had almost seemed to _know_. Staring back at him, at his bloodied hands.

He hadn't been able to do it.

It wouldn't stop the Aurors sending him to Azkaban.

He was guilty.

It didn't just feel like he'd done it, he actually had.

"I'm fine." It was barely audible. Tom probably didn't even hear. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around himself as the door opened. "I'm fine." He repeated, louder. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Okay. I know," Tom said.

"I'm fine," he said, again. Tom looked at him for a moment, and he wanted to cringe, gritted his teeth so another repetition of that worthless lie wouldn't come out of his mouth.

Once he was dressed, the other guided him down to the sitting room, perhaps rightly assuming he wouldn't be sleeping any time soon.

It all felt so awfully familiar to last time.  
He wondered if there had been a next time. Last time he'd promised there wouldn't be, now he just didn't know anymore.

He swallowed, wetted his lips, made a futile effort to bring himself back under control.

"I saved them," he said. "That's what matters, isn't it?"  
He hated the humiliating edge of desperation in his voice.

"You said you were going to talk with Voldemort," Tom intoned softly.  
Harry's eyes squeezed shut, as he let out a shaky exhale.

It was too much. It was just - too much - all too much.

"I feel like I'm becoming him. Slowly. That he's just chipping away from what's me, until there's nothing left and there's nothing to hold onto because what I hold onto is what he's using against me in the first place-I don't-"

Tom just looked at him, perhaps waiting for him to verbalise, but he couldn't.  
He couldn't pinpoint when it had happened, though after Petunia's death he'd first become aware of it.

Then, he'd thought it was his power, a weapon and a tool that he could use...

He didn't feel like himself anymore.

Worse, he knew that Voldemort hadn't given him anything new, he'd just hostaged the best parts of him and twisted them into something dark.

His desires to help and save people led to destruction and murder.

His friendships turned into target practice.

Anything good about him was simply being smeared and deformed.

"I feel like something's - gone wrong - in me," he bit out. "Was I just bad at the start that he picked me? I just - it's not getting any better. Whatever you're trying to do, whatever tools you're trying to give me, they're not working! It's just - just getting worse. I'm becoming more like him. The connection is just getting stronger. The last time I stood at his crime scene I couldn't even tell what was me or him anymore!"

His only solace was that maybe it was almost over.  
He just needed to track down the line of Slytherin.

Maybe for the rest of the twelve days he'd have some reprieve. Maybe, through some miracle, Voldemort's appetite was satisfied.

Sirius had once told him that everyone had some light and dark inside of them, that having bad things happen to him didn't make him bad.

He wished his Godfather was still around.

The ache had faded over the years, but right now it felt as raw as ever.

He looked at Tom, hatefully.

"Are you just going to sit there in silence and listen to me again?" he spat.

"No," Tom said, quietly. "I'm not. I had a plan for our session today, an...exercise you may call it. Now just hardly seemed the right time to bring it up."

"Show me," he ordered.

It was difficult, because he'd always had to rely on himself, and nobody else. He'd based everything about himself on his own ability to keep doing what was right, on a few moral principles and pushing forwards to survive.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe Tom had been giving him the tool all along, but his pride and every instinct simply screamed at him that it wasn't an option.

He didn't want to give everything he was up, his independence, and the thought of trusting somebody else to really look after him seemed inconceivable. He'd always looked after himself.

But if Voldemort was working by targeting his footholds...

The Butterflies targeted his emotions, his heart, twisting it with the promises of happiness if he just succumbed, the promise of change and a mission statement.

Twelve Days of Christmas and Crouch targeted his morals, his 'need to play the hero' as Hermione called it. His need to be good so he wasn't Voldemort.

So maybe he had no choice but to grab onto Tom instead, something else, anything outside of his own skin.

He wanted to rely on himself, but his own mind was the bloody problem! It always had been.

His eyes followed Tom numbly as his psychiatrist moved across the sitting room, to a cupboard, watching as he pulled something out and turned.

Harry's mouth dried around the acrid taste of vomit, eyes widening.

_Rope._

What the hell?

* * *

_A/N: So, there'll be more explanation on what happened with the deal next time. I guess I'm trying to show the way Harry's mind is jumping around and trying not to focus on him, and how everything feels not quite right and jumping around. Hope I succeeded on that count, and it doesn't just feel like I'm randomly skipping things or leaving them out, because I promise I'm not. You'll also find out what happened to Hermione. And Cho, for that matter. So, um, yeah. _


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19:

Even with everything else going on, Harry's first thought was something entirely inappropriate for a therapy session - unless it was being run by Freud.

His eyes moved over the rope, and, just for a second, he was startled out the fugue of guilt and helplessness he had spiralling into.

His mouth felt stupidly dry.

"...unless you're intending to knot that into a noose I can use to hang myself, I don't see how it's going to help anything," he replied.

Tom shot him a mildly sharp, or at least discerning, look at the comment, offering a tight smile in response, before his expression cleared.

Harry could just imagine him jotting 'potentially suicidal thoughts and tendencies' into a mental file.

"No, that was not my intention. From what I have gathered, one of the problems causing you so much distress is the issue of control," Tom said, taking a step forward. "I intend to temporarily strip that control, and thus any accompanying senses of guilt or responsibility, away from you."

"You want to, what, tie me up or something?" Harry swallowed, shaking his head, trying to figure it out. "I'm pretty sure lack of control isn't my problem." He felt exposed and vulnerable enough already, without his psychiatrist tying him up and whatever he'd been expecting...this wasn't it.

He just wished his head would stop thinking about it. Though he supposed it was better than thinking about Uncle Vernon's vacant eyes glaring up at him.

His fists clenched.

"Then it will teach you to confront the fear and the powerlessness you feel when the normal things you rely on are taken from you, allowing you to build new footholds and foundations if you find yourself in a difficult situation," Tom returned smoothly. "Face your fear."

It all sounded so logical - and yet somehow he'd never equated someone tying him up with logic. His eyes darted over the rope as Tom set it on the coffee table between them. He was trying not to laugh, even as he really didn't find it funny.

"You do know as an Auror I own standard issue handcuffs and why do you even have that much rope in the first place?"

"Yes, but I'd wager you also know how to get out of Ministry standard issue handcuffs, which would rather defeat the purpose," Tom raised his brows.

Harry bit his lip.

Would this actually work? He had no idea how it was even supposed to work! He didn't even know if the whole thought didn't make him want to start having a panic attack.

He wondered if Hermione knew of Doctor Riddle's alternative methods.

"...so you intend to tie me up and...?"

"And?" Tom questioned, before his expression cleared, a small wry smile flitting across his lips that didn't entirely reassure Harry. Though he had to admit the fact that Tom was still talking to him normally, like he hadn't just killed a man, and wasn't on the brink of a mental breakdown, was nice. "Nothing unprofessional or inappropriate, of course. Legal fees and all that..I'd rather not get sued."

Harry snorted, though it was more on the edge of hysterical than amused. He scraped a hand over his face.

He still didn't know how Tom expected all of this to work - it just sounded slightly insane!

"You said you trusted me," Tom reminded quietly. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He had, hadn't he? He didn't even have any other ideas, he just...wanted to feel better so badly. He couldn't say the thought of even temporarily absolving himself of guilt wasn't tempting.

He swallowed, again, but the wedge still hadn't left his throat.

"Fuck, I can't believe I'm considering this." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling, wishing his head would feel straight on his shoulders. How could he be expected to make any sort of informed or responsible choice on the matter when he suddenly wasn't even sure if he was still himself?

He still had no idea how this worked. He felt so - so uncertain - about everything - and so tired - and - he squeezed his eyes shut once more, trying to think.

Tom took another step forward.

"If it doesn't make you feel better, there won't be any repeats. Though I should note, I don't tend to offer my more...alternative therapies lightly. If you agree, think carefully first, because you will not be able to back out for the duration of the session once it starts."

"And how long is a 'session'?" Harry blinked, fingers curling tightly in his lap, pressing into each other.

"Perhaps a couple of hours at the most."

"...do you do this with a lot of people or am I special case? Because I don't have a good track record being people's special cases."

"Obviously I cannot give you too many details due to client confidentiality, but yes, I have - the only thing special about your situation in this case is that you're getting the service on discount."

Part of him wondered if there was something Tom wasn't telling him about all of this.

"Well, if you get too excited at least I'll find out very quickly if you're Voldemort," he joked, without humour. He felt like all the stitches keeping him together were unravelling, and maybe this - this mad plan - would help.

At this point, he was willing to try almost anything.

He didn't know. His head was pounding. If Tom was Voldemort the Universe hated him - but he couldn't believe he was. Though Harry wasn't sure how rational his conviction was, compared to how much was based on his desperate need for it not to be Tom.

It wasn't Tom. Tom wouldn't torture himself.

"Good bloody practise for when they send me to Azkaban," he muttered.

"I won't ask again what happened, as it is clear you do not wish to talk about it currently, " the other murmured, studying him carefully.

"Hmm. Yeah. They'd ask you to be a character witness when they convict me. Best I keep my mouth shut."

"Harry, under my legal agreements, the Ministry cannot force me to appear in court and testify, didn't Miss Granger tell you that? I have a lot of very old families under my clientele, I don't know if it will reassure you or not, but I've seen worse than you."

...that was actually the most comforting thing Tom had offered him all night, and he relaxed into the knowledge that maybe he wasn't on Voldemort's level of evil yet, if Tom didn't think he was. Hell knew, it worried him that he needed someone else to define it for him nowadays, because he could no longer tell himself.

How bad could this be? Maybe that wasn't the right attitude to be approaching this with. He waited for Tom to start, only to find the other was still watching him.

"What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You've yet to give me a fully consenting response."

"Half the time I'm stuck in the head of a mad man and I can't be entirely sure if he isn't messing with me this very second! Any consent you get from me is by definition dubious," he pointed out. Tom merely raised his brows. Harry found himself calming, just a tiny bit, by how...solid Tom was. How unshaken.

Harry turned away, wished he had a glass of whiskey to drain first.

"It's amazing, what you do," he murmured.

"Excuse me?"

"You always act...you're always composed. I'm an Auror, I'm supposed to be...there for everyone, I'm supposed to be the hero who's brave and not bothered by any of this because the good guys always win." There was a slightly mocking, self deprecating tone to his voice. "How do...how do you it?" He looked at the other once more. "Do you just not care?"

"I have very good compartmentalization skills," Tom replied, in a measured tone. "And I'm very good at distancing myself from distressing things."

An ugly smile crossed Harry's lips.

"You see us as problems, not people. Damaged little things for you to fix up and add to your collection." He gave a short, unforgiving laugh.

"It's your job to care about the people, not mine. If not caring makes me very good at my job and objective enough to give them the solutions a friend would be too soft to offer, then so be it."

"So this is all clinical." Harry's eyes swept over the rope. "You said we were friends. Please...don't lie. Not right now. The world's fucked up enough in my head that I can't - I can't-" he rubbed his eyes against his temples, felt the foundations wobble dangerously, wanted to burst out crying and hated himself even more for that stupid, childish feeling and burn in his eyes. He choked it down. "I'm fine."

"You are my friend. You are also my client."

"And does that affect your professional judgment on me?"

There was a long silence that gave him all the response he needed, but he waited for whatever verbal excuse or honesty Tom would offer either way.

"Yes. Yes it does. If you were not my friend, I would be obligated to have you institutionalized." The words were blunt, and Harry's eyes widened with absolute shock as he whipped to face Tom, shoulders stiffening. He took a startled step back, only for Tom to hold up his hands as if placating a wild animal. "As you are my friend, and I have the utmost confidence in my abilities, and am aware that following the book does not always yield to the best results - hence why I wrote and started my own - I see no reason to do that when I'm fully aware of your dislike of such things. I'm your friend. I'm going to help you, and I'm going to stand by you no matter the consequences of your actions today. I-" it was one of those rare moments when Tom faltered again, expression softening. "I know you'd do the same for me."

Harry exhaled a breath, eyes narrowing slightly, feeling the affection warm him up inside. And god...he just felt so cold. He didn't want to switch back on, when he knew he'd end up on his knees vomiting.

He wanted another shower. To clean his hands again.

He met Tom's eyes and nodded.

"With the full awareness that once this starts I won't be stopping until the session is complete, no matter what you say?"

Harry hesitated.

"Yeah. Even then."  
It had to be worth a shot.

* * *

Hermione sat on her bed, reading, trying to will away the headache lurking in the back of her head - waiting for an opportunity to sharpen.

Riddle had assured her that everything was okay with Harry at lunch, but she still couldn't shake the nagging feeling in her mind. Harry wasn't...Harry wasn't okay. He very clearly wasn't okay.

She didn't blame Riddle - Harry's was a rather unique case, and probably not exactly easily treatable either. If it even was treatable. Maybe he'd teach him Occlumency, though Snape had tried and failed miserably. But Harry didn't like Snape, and he seemed to like Tom rather too much if the way they'd danced at the Ministry Ball was anything to go by.

She shouldn't judge, if it helped Harry it had to be good, and she supposed attachment to someone who knew your secrets was only natural. But still...she hoped he didn't get hurt out of it, especially if Riddle was forced to refer him.

It was a dangerous game, really, because she'd tried getting Harry help before and he'd never lasted a second with the other mind healers. He said he had no desire to spill his guts for someone who spent every second with him thinking about the book deal they could get for publishing papers on the innermost workings of the mind of the "Boy who Lived."

Tom wasn't just Harry's best chance, by Harry's own reluctance to get involved with psychiatry, he might just be his only chance too.

Her eyes widened when there was a loud thumping on her door, before going down, wrapping her purple dressing gown tighter around her.

It was Ron.

His eyes were wild, hair dishevelled.

"Have you seen Harry? Is he with you?"

"What? No. What's happened? Did - Cho - is she?"

"She's alive."  
So why didn't he look more happy?

Her brow furrowed.

"Something's gone wrong," she stated. "What?"

"The Dursleys are dead. There - there is blood all across Vernon's room!"

"They weren't supposed to die today! The cameras-"

"Cut. I don't know if this is Voldemort, or - or-" Ron shook his head. "We need to find Harry. I'm afraid Voldemort might have...got to him."

Hermione transfigured her clothes quickly.  
"Have you checked in with Riddle."

"...the psychiatrist? Harry hates therapy, why would he be with Riddle?"

Sometimes, and she didn't mean it horribly, she wondered how the man became an Auror.

* * *

It took every effort of Harry's to hold still as he held his hands behind his back, the rough texture of the rope pressing against his wrists. Tom gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, looping it around him. The rope pulled at his shoulders until he couldn't even wriggle them, though he had tried tensing so maybe they would be looser when he relaxed.

It didn't work. It wound around his ankles too, under and around his thighs and back over his shoulders, attaching his ankles to his wrists.

Tom was very professional about it, and Harry felt a bit ashamed that with his psychiatrist's hands gliding over his bare torso (increased sense of vulnerability, according to Tom, and Harry couldn't say he disagreed) and grazing over the sensitive soles of his feet other thoughts of other scenarios flittered through his head too in a nauseating combo of good and bad experiences. It was getting difficult to keep balanced.

It didn't help that Tom had settled a blindfold over his eyes once his hands were tied, after the initial agreement - and Harry certainly hadn't remembered that being part of the bloody agreement!

He was forced to rely on touch alone, and, as time went on, forced to trust.  
Even if Voldemort wasn't Tom, the what-ifs were spinning wildly through his head and he certainly didn't feel relaxed right then! If anything, he felt utterly on edge.

"Tom, I've changed my mind," he blurted out. The other's hands paused against his skin- taking his pulse. "Untie me."

"No."

"I-I'm not consenting. It is not bloody consent if I change my mind! I don't like this. If somebody walks in right now and attacks me, I can't do a thing!"

"Do you feel like somebody is likely to attack you in my home?" Tom asked calmly, merely tightening knots. "And as I said, once the session has started, I will not allow you to back out. You are out of your comfort zone. That is expected, good even. My therapy would not work if I stopped the second it got difficult."

Easy for Tom to say when he wasn't the one tied up!

His voice was so measured. Harry wanted to snarl at it - and then immediately flinch from the thought and the anger because anger led to violence and was that his or somebody else's? He shuddered.

He'd thought making the deal would give him more control too, and he could feel satisfied that he'd saved Dudley and Marge, faking their deaths. But he didn't feel in control. He felt like he'd just walked straight into what Voldemort wanted from him anyway. His breathing picked up.

"Shh," Tom murmured, soothingly. "Just calm down, Harry. You're fine. Now, open your mouth please so I can gag you."

Harry reared back, shaking his head. Oh no, no. No way. It had to be obvious to the man that he didn't like this! Wasn't this supposed to be done in small baby steps!?

He wondered if Voldemort's victims screamed for him to stop, pleaded for their lives, let out a shudder, and...his hands were shaking. Tom did nothing to force anything into his mouth, however, and he was half terrified the doctor would try - and it was like all of his nightmares come true!

He felt...utterly helpless.  
But he also remembered Tom saying he didn't get out of this until the session was complete, and Tom must have warded the ropes or something because he couldn't wriggle free with magic's help either. Though he certainly tried.

Tom had to either be a serial killer, really into BDSM and so practiced with tying people up. Or both.

Then again, he said he went hunting, so he was probably used to hogtying his game.

The thought did absolutely nothing to reassure him.

He let his lips part, wetting them, and it was only then that the wad of material was pressed in with a gentleness he hadn't been expecting, but desperately needed.

"Very good," Tom murmured. "Now, calm your breathing Harry, and your mind. There is nothing you can do right now. You've already tried freeing yourself, and you know you can't."

There was no immediate effect, just Tom's warm hands resting on his hips.

It took a while, but, eventually, simply because Tom was showing no inclination of doing anything, he started to calm. He could almost feel the calm radiating through him like the warmth of Tom's fingers.

"You're doing great," Tom said. He could practically picture the smile. "Now, believe it or not, I am actually starting you off relatively easily. You see, what I'm attempting to achieve is something called a subspace. Have you ever heard of it? It's a term often used in BDSM practises, because the intense reaction caused by what's going on in BDSM scenes tends to evoke it, and a sympathetic nervous system response which releases natural chemicals into the body. Such as endorphins, for example."

There was nothing to do but listen carefully.

"Nod if you're with me so far," Tom added. Harry nodded after a moment, stomach still lurching with a desperate unease that he couldn't shake, no matter the simultaneous, wired calm.

The crime scenes were flashing through his head again, and Tom's hands tightened slightly.

"The increase of chemicals create a trance like state, and in extreme cases all sense of pain temporarily ceases- a sort of natural high. It is this feeling that will allow you the reprieve that you are craving."

Harry sullenly couldn't help but think Tom could have explained all of this before. His mind was twitching, and whilst he could agree with the intense part in that he was convinced he was going to throw up and choke with all of the associated imagery, he didn't see what he was going to get for the good part. The explanation didn't calm him either, and he shook his head again.

As much as he didn't want to be in his own head, he didn't want to be pushed back in his mind so he entered the 'door' into Voldemort's instead.

Tom seemed to utterly ignore the protest. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't to be plunged into this so suddenly and only now that he was trapped actually thinking through what he'd agreed to with anything other than blind panic.

"Now, do I have your consent to move onto the next stage?"

The next stage? What the hell was the next stage!? Wasn't tying him up enough?

At least it wasn't in a Butterfly position, Tom had to know he wouldn't be able to stand that. Though he didn't much like the implications of being stuck on his knees either.

He gave a small moan of protest, shook his head.  
"Alright then, tell me when you change your mind."

He felt Tom's hands leave him, and his head snapped up, trying to place where the other had gone via footsteps. Was he - was he leaving!? He couldn't just leave him alone like this, could he?

The images immediately started going through his head faster, now not kept at bay by the sense of calm either. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything but the floor beneath him and the ropes nuzzling against his skin, awkwardly resting and shifting around his legs if he struggled against them too much.

How the hell was Tom even supposed to hear him consent or anything if he left the room? He didn't want to be alone with this - that was even worse! Then there was absolutely no reminder that he was still technically safe.

He nodded his head, just wanted to get through this as fast as possible.  
He would not be agreeing a second time, that was for sure.

Tom's hands returned.

Then there was a knock on the door.

* * *

Tom scowled as the door went - and he was actually starting to get sick at all the interruptions, though at least Lucius' visit during lunch had been marginally interesting.

Harry's head snapped up at the sound, and he squeezed the other's shoulder again, feeling that same rush of power when the boy relaxed marginally under the touch.

It took a lot of effort on his behalf to stay under control - more emotionally than physically, because he didn't actually have any interest in messing with the session via his other hobbies. Right now, at least, this was about treatment, and not actually toying with Harry further.

Despite what most people would believe, he did take his job very seriously most of the time. They were always cured before he killed them, even as Voldemort. Made better.

He wanted to see if this worked, and if it led to a greater dependence...he wasn't complaining. He was still giving Harry the rest he needed. He wouldn't say he was growing fond of the boy, but...well, he admired his spirit.

He wanted to break Harry, yes, but he also wanted to put him back together as a shinier version of himself, with all of his potential fulfilled.

Though he maintained Harry would make an exquisite crime scene, if it came down to that.

"I'll be right back."

Harry made a sound of protest, but after simply carding his fingers reassuringly through the other's hair he left him there.

Weasley. Granger. He didn't let his eyes narrow.

"Can I help you?" he asked, making a show of yawning, a little bleary eyed, with a pointed glance at the clock. Granger did at least look a little bad about waking him at past four in the morning.

"Is Harry with you?" the redhead asked bluntly. He considered his options for a moment, tempted to lie but well aware of how easily that could cause problems later.

"Yes. He's fine. Sleeping, in fact. Has something happened?"

"His relatives are dead, we thought - has he been with you all night?"

"...is my client in trouble, Auror Weasley?" Tom raised his brows. "Because if he is, I do not believe I should be discussing anything about him without my lawyers present, or without questioning him first myself on the matter."

"Can we just see him?" Hermione bit out. Tom shook his head.

"He's sleeping. Come back in the morning. I'm sure you're aware of how rare it is to get him to sleep, and I cannot in good conscience allow you to interfere with that. It is vital to his treatment and health."

"Well, yes, of course but-"

"Was there anything else?" He gave a polite, but firmly dismissive smile. "He is still capable of answering your questions in the morning, and I'm sure you agree that he is well deserving of being allowed to sleep for one night without hearing his family are dead. Yes?"

Weasley looked utterly frustrated, glaring at him.  
"We could get a warrant."

"Ron!" Granger exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Tom's eyes narrowed.  
"I do hope you're not trying to threaten me to get to my client. I'd hate to get involved in such an unnecessary, expensive, court case with you."

Weasley flushed at the insinuation of his family's wealth or lack thereof, and the knowledge that even now he couldn't afford such a thing.

"We'll be back in the morning," Hermione said, though he doubted she'd be so compliant if she had the full stock of her memories.

"Quite. Goodnight."

He shut the door, let his eyes darken for a moment, itching to murder them - the Weasley boy in particular for his unspeakable rudeness. His lips thinned, and he took a moment to shake the thoughts before returning to the living room.

Harry was about as pale as he had been when he first arrived, and he swept over, tapping the boy's shoulder lightly to indicate that he was back, watching him twitch a little, starting to form a cold sweat with the things no doubt circling his head.

He'd banked on this reaction, even. It was quite fascinating. His hand reached out of its own accord, catching hold of Harry's chin and tilting his head up to examine him. Pity he had to be blindfolded for this particular session. The boy mumbled something, but it was too muffled to be understood.

He couldn't do this like he would really want to, not professionally, so he'd had to come up with another solution to get to the point he wanted Harry at. Harry would have to do most of the work himself. Still.

Harry was already half dissociated from the things he'd done earlier today, teetering on the edges of his control, detaching slowly from a reality he didn't want to face.

He'd always wondered how far such things could be pushed, whether psychosis could be conditioned into a person, without the use of drugs.

Maybe he'd write a post-mortem paper on it.  
He wondered how much he could get away before the partial suspicions Harry already had, but pushed back, simply splintered under the pressure.

The best option, which he was personally aiming for, was for Harry to be at such a level of dependence when he inevitably discovered Voldemort's identity, that he kept quiet anyway. Joined him instead.

Plans had never been made with only half of him in mind, after all - why use one side of him, when he could cage Harry in between both of his personas?

Still, for now, he was actually rather proud of Harry's murders, so he would reward him with the rest he needed. He cast the spell silently, and waited.

This was hardly a one session quick fix after all.

* * *

_A/N: So, I'm actually terrified to post this chapter. Normally I can post them more or less immediately once they're written, but I've been debating this one for hours, so please tell me what you think of how this story is going whilst I go and hide somewhere and try and do something more useful in my life. _


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20:

Tom watched as Harry's whole body seemed to jolt and arch with surprise for a second, head snapping up to look in his direction, even if he couldn't actually see him.

He made a muffled noise, and Tom felt a small smirk cross his lips.

The psychological effect he was after required an intense, but balanced measure of pain and pleasure to take effect. There were numerous ways he could go about it, but this seemed the easiest considering Harry already had the basis for it in his own mind.

It was obvious that Harry was freaking out the second his hands were bound, and even through his strong Occlumency Shields he couldn't help but catch the fragments of his own crime scenes, distorted.

He wetted his lips; kept a careful track of Harry's mind and processes easily. Harry wasn't in a state to recognize if someone was brushing the back of his mind or not, when he could barely think straight and in the aftermath of murder was already so confused about his own identity.

This exercise was merely taking that further, and, after a while, as Harry's thoughts seemed to crescendo with the juxtaposition of the pleasure simulated by the spell, he just...detached.

The stress lines marking his face faded as he simply stopped computing his own thoughts and anything going on around him, buzzing like white noise against Tom's own mind.

He lunged forwards in a split second to keep Harry upright, one hand firmly holding his shoulder so he didn't strain himself too much, the other brushing the hair back from his face.

It wasn't the most involved in the scene he could have been - and it would have been so easy to take advantage and involve himself right now - but he refrained, just watching as Harry occasionally twitched, seeming rather lost to himself seeing as Tom was doing nothing to focus him.

He kept him like that for maybe half an hour, before slowly shifting to remove the gag first, letting the material slip out and tossing it aside for now as he started to wind him down again.

"Thirsty?" it was the first words he'd offered in quite some time, and he wasn't sure if Harry was even coherent enough to give him an answer. When he didn't receive one - he went to get a glass of water anyway, nudging it against Harry's lip.

After a moment, the boy drank blindly, and he had to keep tugging the water back a bit so he wouldn't choke on how fast he was drinking. He let his fingers stroke through the other's hair, pushing back the fringe and revealing that famous lightning bolt scar, before setting the glass aside and dropping his hand.

Next, he undid the blindfold, letting the soft material.

Harry's eyes immediately focused on him from the glaze, head tilting a little to one side. There was an intentness there, the same that there always was, but it was different. None of the normal wariness was there, the suspicions and the calculations and analysis of everyone around him and especially those who had anything to do with his mind.

It was entrancing, to see Harry look so drugged on Tom, on their memories.  
He offered him a small smile, let his fingers glide to untie the knots, letting the ropes fall to the ground.

Harry seemed to completely sag, as the stimuli for his negative experiences was removed, and after a few seconds, he ended the spell too.

The young man blinked several times, sluggishly, shoulders relaxed now, even if his breathing was still a little harsh.

"Come on," he murmured, pulling Harry up, watching as he stumbled a tiny bit with pins and needles. "Let's get you to bed. You're no doubt exhausted."

He personally judged the session a success, however temporary a success it was.

Not having slept for days probably, Harry looked like he could just pass out on the spot now, at the limit of his endurance, so he scooped him up easily.

When he'd first met Harry, he was rather stocky despite his small stature, but he'd since grown a lot thinner. It was probably rather concerning that he had the weight of a teenager, over a fully grown man.

Tom himself was hardly hulking, he was tall and slim, but he was wiry. He had to have some strength to be able to carry out his extracurriculars, even with the aid of magic. Strong and fast.

And his diet was excellent.  
Harry looked and weighed like he would forget to eat if someone didn't remind him.

The boy's eyes flickered with confusion, but Tom was already dumping him on the bed he'd stayed on last time, peeling his socks off with quick efficient movements.

"Go to sleep," he instructed. "I'll stay here until you do."

Harry stared at him for a moment, looking younger than ever, expression more open and soft than he'd ever seen it. No weapons or shields drawn for once.

"You're a really weird psychiatrist," the other mumbled, before just closing his eyes whilst his mind was still calm, tired and lulled, having not yet worked itself into a frenzy of guilt and responsibility and violence again, just floating down from the heights of incoherence he'd drifted off to earlier.

Tom watched as his breathing slowly evened out, in an oblivion of unconsciousness for once, rather than a writhing mess of nightmares.

The soft expression faded from his own eyes, going blank, as he tucked the boy in, letting his hand pause on the pulse thudding in Harry's neck. So many years ago, he would never have expected it to come to do this. But so many things had changed since then, some of which he didn't even understand.

But they were connected, and he would hold onto that for as long as it was possible.

With Harry so compliant and relaxed next to him, he could almost pretend for a second that they lived a different life entirely, that they were the happy if unconventional couple that maybe some part of Harry's mind was hoping for.

He let his fingers caress the side of Harry's cheek, the pad of his thumb dragging over Harry's lip. He couldn't help but wonder what they'd taste like.

He leaned down, only to catch himself, let his hand rest over the steadily fluttering pulse point again with a sigh instead.

No. Not like this.

Harry wasn't for his table, though he was sure his heart would be quite the delicacy, and he could taste him in other ways if he was sure of his own control over the matter. It mattered not.

He was getting distracted. Harry wasn't awake for any of this to have any value on their game, no manipulation. Still he hovered, watched for a moment - could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the boy looked this peaceful. It was an indulgence, almost, on his behalf, like white chocolate, too sweet to be had at all times and only balanced by the more favoured rich bitterness of dark things.

He was a monster for what he'd done to this man.  
If he had any remorse to offer, he would have turned himself in now for this unforgivable crime, even if he didn't care for the others.

But...as it was, he simply straightened and moved to turn out the light before he did something stupid. Paused, glanced back, before just shaking his head and shutting the door behind him.

Humans were predatory by nature, he just became the best of them.

* * *

It was the most restful night of sleep Harry had in awhile, and he was grateful, he just...he didn't think he'd be up for a repeat experience.

It numbed his mind and gave him the reprieve he desperately needed, but to the extent that he couldn't think of anything at all, exposed by a raw nerve, forced to place his trust completely and utterly in Tom, barely able to function.

He hadn't been able to focus on his surroundings, or even the spinning thoughts behind his unease for being restrained so firmly, it was all muffled to stimulus and sensation and all too much of both.

Tom was already in the kitchen when he woke up, and he blinked.  
"Do you ever sleep?" he asked, feeling a bit awkward after all of the previous night's events. Not that anything had happened, but...well…he could feel heat on the back of his neck.

He wondered if Tom was the type to tie people up outside of therapy sessions too, then cursed himself for the thought. He was the man's patient, friend if he had to be anything more, and with far bigger concerns than the romantic status of his doctor.

"On a sunday," Riddle murmured, with a small teasing smile. For a second, he was convinced the other knew what he was thinking, and slid his gaze away. He snorted instead, ran a hand through his hair.

The other was already dressed in another expensive suit, tailored to crisp lines for his form, and gestured at the coffee pot. "Some Aurors were looking for you, earlier, by the way," Tom said. "Your friend Ron was among them."

And everything crashed back on him.

Dursleys. Voldemort. Nightmares. Things less innocent to preoccupy himself with. But it seemed more...not tolerable, but manageable this time. Less of a mess, with even just a small break and some sleep to be able to compose his barriers once more.

He let out a shaky breath, nodding his head, wanted to say thank you but couldn't get the words out, thoughts already twisting down other avenues.

Surely he'd feel it if Voldemort knew he'd lied? He'd have been sucked into his eyes to watch him murder the remaining Dursleys, and everyone else. He'd managed to save them, on his own, without just going along with the plan! That had to count for something.

He knew what this was about though. Gave as much of a smile as he could manage, which was really more the imitation of a grimace.

He poured himself a cup of Tom's freshly ground coffee, and headed out the door.

Tom was acting like it was the same as any of his other sessions. Maybe it was. Maybe Harry was just overthinking it, and the glide of his psychiatrist's fingers across his sensitized skin.

Maybe it didn't matter when he had a serial killer to catch and a Slytherin Heir to research.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

"Miss Chang didn't die last night," Scrimgeour stated, pacing up and down in front of him in his office. Harry kept his expression forward, blank, hands loose in his lap.

"Is that a bad thing, sir?" he raised his brows. "Maybe he couldn't get to her."

"Your relatives are also dead on the same night," his boss said, in clipped tones.

"Are you accusing me of something?" Harry bit out, fists clenching.

"Do I need to be?" Scrimgeour replied flatly. Harry sagged, rubbing his eyes. It was like Crouch all over again, but so much worse. Whilst he didn't want a repeat of that session, he was pretty sure he would have been a babbling wreck if he'd been trying to have this conversation the night before.

"I made a deal with Voldemort."

"I gathered as much. Did you kill them?"

Harry didn't know what to say - on one part, he should tell the truth and say 'no', because it was less likely to end up in Azkaban. On the other hand, Voldemort had an unnerving habit of wheedling out information he shouldn't know, so for the sake of people's lives he should say 'yes', or nothing at all.

Scrimgeour...how could he trust the man when all he could see when he looked at him was his Aunt screaming to death in flames? Of course, if anyone understood involuntary murder, it was him, but…

Secrets were best kept carefully. Especially secrets as dangerous as these.

His boss frowned at his lack of answer, perhaps taking it for a 'yes'. He was obviously wrestling with what to do, and rubbed his temples, nostrils flaring.

"I should fire you."

Harry snorted at the cold words, biting out a harsh laugh.  
"You won't fire me. Not until Voldemort is caught and I become expendable."

"I would fire if you became more a liability than a help," Scrimgeour said quietly. "I'd have no choice if you were truly a danger to yourself and those around you. Are you?"

"Isn't Doctor Riddle supposed to inform you on our meetings and tell you the second I am incapable of working in the field?"

"Doctor Riddle was not my first choice of psychiatrist for involvement within you, and the Voldemort case. Healer Smethwyck was my personal recommendation, however your friend Miss Granger got involved and reached out to Riddle."

Harry's brow furrowed slightly, nose wrinkling.

He was glad he got Riddle instead of Smethwyck. He hated Smethwyck, the obnoxious man had been one of the head healers at St Mungo's, and now ran a Psychiatrist Hospital for the criminally insane after Hermione started campaigning against the immorality of sending even dark wizards to the Dementors.

The man had been trying to pick at his brain to write a paper on it from the first time Harry met him. He definitely didn't want him fumbling around his mind, and experimented, and generally having him trapped as a lab rat.

It was one the many reasons he had such a fear of getting institutionalized. He suddenly couldn't help but feel a fresh burst of gratitude towards Tom for not just treating him like a broken toy, some animal in the zoo to be stared at, barely human. And Hermione, for ensuring she didn't end up with Smethwyck.

His jaw tightened.

"It's my therapy, I get to choose who I have it with, even if the Ministry decreed it was compulsory I take some so I could continue being their Voldemort radar," he said flatly.

Scrimgeour stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Mr Potter," he began, gruffly, "Harry -"

"Save it. I want Voldemort caught as much as you do - actually, I'm pretty sure I want him caught more. You can expect my resignation from the Ministry and the Auror office after that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you're concerned about my mental health, take it up with Riddle further."

He raised his brows, challengingly - knew his boss wouldn't. Rufus was a good man, somewhere inside Harry knew that, but he cared more for catching his killers and the good of the nation, than of the individual sacrifice involved.

He'd think it was Harry's obligation to be used by the Ministry, whilst his heart still beat to be able to do so. He'd never jeopardize the investigation, even if he suspected - hell knew - that Harry was breaking in the process.

He'd sat and watched long enough already, and only raised the therapist issue so Harry would last long enough to get the job done.

"Considering Mr Riddle is, by your own words and actions in bringing him in, a suspect in this case," Scrimgeour said, tightly. "It wouldn't be a far stretch to see you removed onto the care of Healer Smethwyck for your own safety."

Harry couldn't believe this.

"Are you threatening me, sir?" he bit out coldly.

"I'm merely looking out for the health of one of my top agents," Scrimgeour said. "You just killed three people. Do you not find that evidence concerning? Three innocent people? That would be enough to warrant a one way ticket to Azkaban in most circumstances."

Harry's eyes narrowed. Sometimes he wondered if they were going out of their way to shove him at Voldemort, because the devil knew this would be easier and he'd have a better chance at 'winning' if he didn't actually care about the casualties and saving lives.

"You just killed my Aunt," he spat. "Do you not find that concerning?" I saved your life with this deal, you have absolutely no right to judge me for what I've done or haven't done!"

Scrimgeour's eyes remained fixed on him, and the man's jaw clenched, before he nodded curtly and stood up. Harry knew it wasn't this easy, that it wasn't over and for god's sake he didn't need this right now. He really didn't.

The man strode out without a backwards glance.

Harry turned to a book on Wizarding Genealogy.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you guys :)  
PS: They're not overlooking the murder, even if it seems like they are currently, trust me._


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Harry had been called into a 'meeting' with his superiors before it was even five O clock. He also knew perfectly well what it was about, and he'd always thought that knowledge and ability to plan his words would calm him down.

It didn't.

His stomach was churning just as much as it was every time he was called into the Head Offices of the Magical Law Enforcement Department.

He had better bloody things to be doing, like trying to identify which old pureblood line was the one linked with Slytherin.

He sort of suspected the Malfoys, but nobody trusted the creeps really, not completely, and it made no sense for a Malfoy to be Voldemort.

Scrimgeour, Thicknesse and Bones were all sitting waiting for him, with grave faces.

Harry had a really bad feeling in his stomach. His fists clenched at his sides, before his fingers flexed once and went still.

"Please," Madame Bones murmured softly. "Take a seat Mr Potter."

Harry dropped into the chair in front of the desk, eyeing all three of them warily. He refused to be the one to start first, to start scrambling over his words and excuses when he didn't really have any to give.

They exchanged looks with each other.

"Mr Scrimgeour has filled us in on the going ons in your department last night. I'm sorry for your loss," Bones said. Harry offered her a tight smile, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the condolences.

"Of course, unless Lord Voldemort, as he calls himself, has a magical ability to get past our security personally, and turn off the cameras the conditions of their deaths are highly suspect," Thicknesse stated coldly. "Especially as from what we have gathered, he is not in the habit of leaving his chosen victims alive and untouched. And yet….if one considers recent developments, we have people dying in the wrong order."

"I don't think it would be such a stretch to imagine you would go to some lengths to try and protect those you love," Bones said, more sympathetically now. "Scrimgeour mentioned you made a deal - unauthorized by your office or any official personal - with this killer?"

Harry could practically feel Thicknesse's eyes citing regulation at him. He wasn't in any position where he was allowed to make unauthorized deals, especially not with wanted criminals.

He hesitated.

"Yes, I made a deal. No more of the twelve will die."

"Yes and you just killed your remaining family!" Scrimgeour snapped, seemingly losing patience.

"You understand that you should, under the law, be escorted immediately to Azkaban prison? Though your superiors have cited that it would perhaps be better for you to instead refer to the care of Healer Smethwyck. This case has obviously been...trying for you," Bones said calmly.

Harry's eyes flashed hotly, and he could feel a cruel rage boiling in the pit of his belly which frightened him because this time he knew full well it was own. He felt like some great monstrous snake wanted to rear out of him, to strike out because they didn't understand and perhaps didn't even care to.

They pretended to understand what he was going through, but they couldn't possibly know! At the end of the day, they could tuck their paperwork in a draw and go home to their families, with only slightly more concern than anyone else in the world.

That wasn't an option for him. He was never safe. Not in waking, not in dreaming, not alone and not in company. It was always there in the back of his head, the insidious of Voldemort, making him feel like he was something disgusted to be around.

No one should ever have to be so scared of themselves and their own capabilities as he was. He'd placed cameras in his room before, just to check he didn't murder someone in his sleep!

He swallowed bile. Considered holding his silence - couldn't bear the thought of Azkaban, or the Institution. He couldn't say the fate seemed entirely different in his mind.

"I didn't kill them," he said, only lying a little bit. He'd killed his uncle. It felt like poison on his tongue. "It was a trick. I relocated them. Couldn't bear more people dying. I faked the scene."

They studied him closely.  
"You faked it?" Bones expression was neutral, giving no clue as to whether she believed him or not. "And why are you only changing your story now?"

"I'm not changing my story. I told Scrimgeour I made a deal, and said nothing when he asked if I killed them." He sent his boss an icy look. "It's not my fault he is so ready to believe that I am the man I'm hunting."

"Where did you relocate them?" Thicknesse questioned.

"I won't be sharing that information. Given previous incidents on the Voldemort case, and his knowledge base, it is better to keep my secrets to myself. The only reason I'm even telling you this is because you'd have me condemned for murder if I didn't," he spat. "Unless you wish to broaden the chances of eight people getting horribly murdered? Including yourself?" he added, looking at Scrimgeour.

The man stared back at him, lips thin, before dropping his gaze.

There was a silent as they seemed to confer with each other, before Thicknesse leaned forward.

* * *

Tom Riddle wasn't in the habit of being concerned; he either didn't care, or everything was going flawlessly to his plans, or would without much hassle and alteration.

But Harry hadn't turned up to his therapy session.  
Of course, the stupid boy was probably working late and had forgotten again - and the only thing that made him feel less like stabbing Harry for being rude enough to forget about him, was the knowledge that he was his own competition for Harry's time and attention.

Harry worked late for being immersed in Voldemort, so really he should be flattered.  
Still, as thrilling and satisfying as being in the centre of Harry's thoughts was, he would have much rather have the boy close now that he'd got a taste for more personal interactions between them.

Before he became Potter's psychiatrist, he would have been fine just watching on the sidelines, twitching strings and knowing the other was desperately struggling with himself, and trying to find him.

Now, however, when he knew what he could had...well, they always said with addiction's that once an appetite for something was whetted, life shifted around it.

He hadn't realized the extent of what he was missing for.  
He'd been happy to watch Harry squirm his way through the puzzles he gave him, wrapping him up in a cocoon of his own terror, doubt and wicked delights.

In some way, Harry was still strung up in that cocoon now, whether he was aware of it or not, groping in the dark for a way out.

The difference was that he wanted to see the details form more closely now, to trace his fingers over every quivering muscles and breathe in the scents of Harry's confusion and desperate need for something to hold onto.

He wanted to see what sort of butterfly Harry turned out to be on his own, to watch as he flew - knowing that he himself had created something so perfect. On the other hand, butterflies were delicate things, and rarely saw their own beauty and wings until someone had shredded them off again, and Tom couldn't bear to see Harry bloom only to wither before he could relish the sight.

In some way, it would be better to just grab hold of him, cradle him in his own hands to ensure no harm came to him, and pin him down to the corkboard to appreciate him forever. To keep him forever.

The thing about wings, was the possibility of flying away.  
Harry was flighty enough already.

Harry was just working late, wasn't he? Tom hated to think their last session had caused Harry to bolt away from him skittishly. It was nothing to be ashamed of. He'd looked lovely.

Shame he couldn't tell him that, so explicitly

Still, his eyes narrowed and his fingers twitched in agitation where he was once again drawing to pass the time. That, and in an effort to be in a more professional state of mind by the time Harry returned, and not so distracted by memories of Harry's writhing form tied up in ropes as he struggled to manage the pleasure spell, and the trauma screaming through his head.

Lips pulled apart by the gag, leaving it in a state of permanent dryness which had him swallowing every minute or so. How Tom had wanted to reach out and run his fingers along the smooth, exposed line of Harry's throat, to press his lips against his pulse and devour his life just as much as he could make a masterpiece out of death.

He would have loved to do it the unprofessional way.  
He'd work on getting Harry that way once he'd accepted Voldemort. Or before, if it came up, but more so after.

And to punish Harry for keeping him waiting this long, for that matter. It was rude. Tom did actually have high demands for his time and efforts, and the boy should be more appreciative of how lucky he was.

He was wrenching the door open when he nearly walked into the patient in question.

And...Smethwyck.

He could admit he hadn't had very many dealings with the head of the London Wizarding Hospital for the Criminally insane. He was a watery looking man, with a smarmy, simperingly pleasant sort of face and a weak jaw.

One look at the expression on Harry's face told him far too much, but the other healer was beaming at him with a glint in his pale eyes, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Healer Riddle, isn't it? We met at a Mind Arts and healing function in Cambridge?" the man offered.

He shook firmly, expression immediately under control, giving a terse smile.  
"I prefer _Doctor_ Riddle, not healer. But yes, I believe so. To what do I owe the...pleasure?"  
He gave Harry a slightly questioning flick of his eyes, and his client scowled, crossing his arms. He looked like an unruly child more than anything.

"Scrimgeour has decided that apparently I'm crazy enough for two psychiatrists, and that seeing as I identified you as fitting the criteria as a suspect you two should tag team me on the couch."

Harry's voice was too light, and Tom savoured the rather noticeable edge of danger behind it. Unruly child aside, that was the Auror coming through.

Harry had pulled himself together some, at least externally, since he last saw him. Though he was still avoiding eyes.

Tom felt a surge of possessiveness immediately explode in his chest, and it was only years of masks that had his face remaining blank and his posture composed. He noticed Harry's eyes flicker to him, confused, and could have swore. He immediately clamped down on the emotion, lest he was projecting it, settling a hand on Harry's back to guide him into the house.

"A wise precaution, though unnecessary. Why, if I was Voldemort, I highly doubt I could satiate myself on a couple of hours of sessions a week alone. I would never have let him go," he gave a small chuckle, before turning business like. "Of course, I will require you to sign a confidentiality agreement."

"Do you have your patients gagged too?" Smethwyck returned, clearly trying to sound clever. "You make it sound like you have something to hide."

He would have been irritated by the response, except Harry's eyes widened comically and he flushed a rather pleasing red that Tom had never seen on his face before.

He gave Smethwyck a smile.

"A magician never reveals his tricks, and I'm afraid my methods would do little good for those not trained in them. That, and as you are not, I believe, yet in any binding contract with my client, it would work as some insurance to his confidentiality too, however one would wish to abstract information outside of a session."

Smethwyck's expression soured at the realisation he might not be able to get anything out of this. Tom felt a vindictive satisfaction grow in him once more.

Whilst he'd never really had much interaction with the man, the healer's obsession with documenting the minds around the Voldemort case was hardly unknown. He was sure, if the fool knew who he was in a room with, he would have been taking notes.

He gave his 'colleague' another pleasant smile, and let his hand drop as Harry stepped away from him.

Everything about the boy's posture was screaming hostility now, at this situation. He was reminded, again, of Harry's initial dislike for psychiatrists and mind healers.

He wanted Harry back for his own again. He disliked sharing.  
This situation would need going over, so he could get the exact details of what had happened.

"Please, come through to the office…"

* * *

_A/N: Not the most interesting of chapters, but maybe it will reassure you that we're getting to the good stuff ;) _

_I was going to dedicate this chapter to Guest710/Little-Frog for her beautiful fan art ( : / / little- -frog. devi ant art art/ Beautiful-Crime-Scene-39628806) but this chapter didn't seem worthy of that. Still, check it out! :D You shall hence get a dedication on a more...fitting chapter._

Thank you for the reviews guys! Harry's getting close now isn't he? *wicked grin*


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22:

Times like these, reminded Harry why he'd hated having a psychiatrist so much in the first place.

He sat stiffly on the sofa, not looking at either of the other two men - though his mind kept spinning over that strange feeling of possession. For a second, he was sure he'd felt it coming from Riddle which was...ominous for the implications. But the man's expression hadn't even changed, so maybe he was mistaken.

Maybe he'd just been hopefully projecting his own feelings, maybe he wanted Riddle to tell Smethwyck to get the hell out of his office and away from his patient.

The two watched him expectantly, though he couldn't help but notice Tom wasn't acting like he normally would with a session.

Whoever's that feeling had been, even if he wasn't a murderous serial killer, no one would be happy having their field of expertise intruded in as if they were incompetent.

"You know," he murmured, to Smethwyck "if Doctor Riddle really was Voldemort, I would have thought you'd be more hesitant in getting so close. If I was Voldemort, and I thought someone was poaching my victim of choice, I'd probably murder them very slowly and gruesomely."

He got some vindictive satisfaction from the sudden sick pastiness of the healer's face, and gave him an innocent smile.

"Do you consider yourself to be his victim, Harry?" Smethwyck returned, after a moment. Harry's lips thinned.

"Do you consider me to be his victim, Healer Smethwyck? And I would prefer to be addressed as Auror Potter."

He stared at the other, hard. Smethwyck shifted, giving a long suffering sigh.

"We are trying to help you. We can't do that if you don't let us."

"Who's we?" Harry gave a sharp smile. "You and your publisher?"

There was a moment of silence, and it said something quite strongly about Tom's feelings on this whole thing, that he wasn't chastising him for being rude.

"You have an extraordinary mind, Harry," Smethwyck started, patiently, hands folding in his lap.

"Voldemort certainly thinks so."

Smethwyck shot him a look at the interruption, and Harry had to clamp down on the urge to give a rather nasty grin, some part of him appalled by his own behaviour.

"-As I said," Smethwyck said tightly, "you have an extraordinary mind, one that could revolutionize modern psychiatry and help a lot of people. Most minds are far more likely to lack empathy and the ability to understand other people's view, rather than the almost pure empathy you seem to have with Voldemort."

"So you're saying I'm a freak?" Harry raised his brows. He saw a well concealed flare of irritation in the other's eyes.

"I am merely trying to signify the benefits of studying you on our understanding of the mind and human psychology," Smethwyck said, neutrally.

"Yeah, well I have no interest being studied," Harry snapped. "By either of you. Or anyone else, for that matter." Smethwyck's mouth opened to respond.

"I do believe we are here to help my client, not pressure him into psychological experimentation," Tom said mildly. "It would be most unprofessional to take advantage of that, do you not think?"

Smethwyck's jaw clenched, before he gave a smile. Harry's eyes met Tom briefly, and the other's lips curled up just slightly, before his face was blank again.

"I would happily help him if he would only talk to us," Smethwyck began.

"I've never had any issue communicating with Harry," Tom said. "It normally starts by addressing him, and letting him dictate the conversation as this is in, fact, his time."

Maybe Harry should be annoyed to be used as a weapon and barb between the two colleagues, but right now, it was more amusing than anything else. Tom probably knew just as well as he did that he had absolutely no intention of saying anything real with Smethwyck around, confidentiality agreements or not.

He didn't want the man crawling through his head with all of the finesse of a beached whale.

That, and it really did bug him when people talked about him as if he wasn't in the room, and was merely an interesting object, or problem, to be solved.

At least Tom had the decency to be subtle about it.

Smethwyck watched him quietly.  
"Mr Potter," he started, carefully using a less chummy form of address this time. "The Ministry has asked me to help evaluate your fitness for field work, given recent developments. Surely it is better for you to have more than one influence to choose from?"

"Yeah, see, that's the thing," Harry mused. "I don't want anyone influencing my mind. I had no desire to seek out psychiatric help."

"Had?" Smethwyck immediately snatched up on the past tense, and Harry could have cursed himself. He went silent, crossing his arms, utterly uncomfortable.

He refused to say another word, staring at the ceiling, until the man left over an hour later.

* * *

Tom returned to the living room after shutting the door behind that infernal healer.  
Sometimes he wondered how such a man became in charge of a psychiatric hospital, because he'd been prodding at Harry with all the discretion and insight of an ogre with a blunt stick.

It was only then that Harry's gaze even shifted away from the patch of ceiling or wall he'd been consistently examining for the last hour.

Tom immediately moved over to his cupboards, taking out some glasses and a bottle of wine, holding it up with a raised eyebrow. Harry nodded, sagging a little, and he soon handed one of the glasses over.

"I bloody well hate that man," the boy muttered.

"I did notice a certain hostility in the room," Tom allowed. Harry was silent, merely sipping his wine, slowly relaxing again, at least somewhat.

"How did you get into psychiatry? Was it always something you wanted to do, or-?"

"Initially," Tom replied, "I wished to go into law, actually. Rather like your friend Miss Granger." It wasn't entirely a lie - he'd certainly wished to change the world, though he'd been more on the Dark Lord end of the spectrum than a barrister.

Harry stared at him.  
"What changed your mind?"

"Consideration of society leads very quickly to a consideration of the nature of people who make it up," he replied, carefully. "I find the human mind fascinating. It's such a complex, delicate thing, prone to so many different variables, and utterly essential to everything else. There is a...tremendous amount of power in the psychological, as I'm sure you're aware of."

He surprised even himself with his level of honesty on the matter. Of course, some things remained omitted, they had to be - but there was more truth than most would accredit him with.

"They say people become psychiatrists in an effort to diagnose themselves," Harry said quietly - and it wasn't the first time the boy had made such a comment. He was more perspective than most gave him credit for too, even without the aid of a mental connection.

"I'm sure some do." But he didn't think that could entirely be said for him. He wanted to understand, yes - he wanted to understand the minds and emotions of humanity, which he'd always felt so separate from, condemned as a child for not fitting with.

Maybe he just liked seeing the damage.

Harry was watching him again, head tilted slightly to one side.

Once upon a time, back at the beginning, Harry would have scarpered and left the second his session was over. It had been a slow shift since then.

"You seem more...grounded, today," he noted, changing the topic.

"Yes." There was a hint of flush on Harry's cheeks. "It turned out your...alternative therapy session was actually quite effective. If you lose your job as a psychiatrist, you can run a professional BDSM club instead." The other blinked once he seemed to realize what he just said. "I mean-" his gaze darted away again.

Tom could never quite decide if Harry was bold or not, on hand, the dropping of eyes so frequently was both submissive to him and evasive, but on the other...his questions certainly weren't shy. He suspected Harry didn't drop his gaze to show his deference, he dropped them because he'd grown wary of what he'd see if he looked too closely. Or, in this case, embarrassment.

He hid behind his glasses, his fringe, and whatever sarcastic comments he could come up with.

"It's fine," Tom said, rather amused actually by this particular slip. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Harry rubbed the back of his head. It was strange, Tom could still remember a time when the boy was less awkward than this, years before Harry had ever formally met him - more at ease with himself and thus everyone else too.

Although, Harry remained utterly confident of himself in his field of work, which was something. Good. It would be beyond irritating if none of that power and potential shone through. The boy would probably already be dead, without that.

It was almost a shame that he had to break Harry first, before he could truly fix him outside of societal constraints. If he didn't break him, he'd forever be wondering what the other looked like 'broken', and that would hardly be conducive to either of them. He'd just have to keep jabbing.

Harry took another sip of his wine.

"How are you getting on with the Voldemort case?" he changed the subject.

Harry's eyes flickered.  
"Is that a subtle way of asking again why I came to your house at 4am covered in blood?"

Tom didn't let his lips twitch.

"Whilst I'm all for client confidentiality, and your being able to divulge at your own pace, an explanation would not be unwarranted given the circumstances," he stated.

Harry sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes.

"I went to Voldemort for a deal to spare the other victims. Obviously, the bastard isn't in the habit of releasing those who he has marked for death, and certainly not for free."

"They said your family was dead." Tom kept his voice quiet, unjudging, trying not to pounce and claw for all the delicious details. Though, he supposed the hollow look in Harry's eyes the other night spoke a lot.

It was one of the few times Harry met his eyes utterly unflinchingly, inner strength allowed to the surface.

"Yes, and do you remember what I'd the done the last time I was that messed up around you?" the other raised his brows.

Tom suspected, disappointedly, that it was as much of a confession as he was likely to get.

"It would help you to move on if you said the words aloud," he tried.

"I don't want to move on," Harry said, surprising him. His brows furrowed. Harry twisted the glass in his fingers. "Moving on is...accepting it in some way, justifying it. It's bad enough to do that in my head. I can't do it out loud without being one step closer to becoming him. Moving on...this isn't something I should be able to...move on."

Smethwyck was right about one thing; Harry's psyche was an extraordinary thing.

"You place a lot of significance on what you should be," he murmured. Harry blinked, once more, wetting his lips.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Yes. Society has trained us to imagine and work towards ideals, sometimes impossible ones."

"You have an issue with that." Harry returned, shrewdly, no question in his voice.

"I think...people limit themselves and make themselves unnecessarily unhappy by focusing so greatly on these perceived notions, over what they actually are."

"Are you telling me you don't?" Harry snorted. "Hell, even Voldemort has ideals, however twisted they may be."

Tom's gaze sharpened.

"What ideals would you say Voldemort has?"

Harry's head tilted at the question.  
"You seem sceptical that he has any? Considering your previous statement that everyone does…"

Tom was silent for a moment, treading carefully ahead of this conversation in his mind.

"Voldemort has ideals, but not in the way of other people. He doesn't have self-ideals for how he should be, he just is." He paused. "At least that's the impression I got off him, from all I've seen and heard, if I were to sit him down on my couch. Obviously, I do not have the same insight to him as you, and so must defer to your judgment on the matter, but-"

"-No, Harry mused. "I get it. He has ideals, but he inflicts them on other people instead. He thinks he's perfect, better than everyone else. Nietzsche's ubermensch. That's probably why he doesn't respect anyone."

"What do you mean?" Tom asked, genuinely curious. "I get the impression he feels highly of you, considering the effort he's going to involving you."

This...was not how he'd expected this to go. Obviously, the appeal of Harry was his capacity to understand him, connect where other people couldn't (and he didn't want to simplify it to anything so sentimental) but...he was suddenly strangely uneasy.

Exactly how close had the boy inadvertently got? When had Harry started looking and seeing more than the strands Tom allowed to swirl around him like chains?

"Oh, he thinks _highly_ of me," Harry murmured. "But in the sense one would look at an object. I am an idea on a pedestal to him. He doesn't respect me, he doesn't respect anyone - he covets, admires in some sense, wants to possess."

"Interesting deduction," Tom managed to get out.

Harry shrugged.

"He views me in the opposite way I do him. I…" the other suddenly went silent, for a long time. "I...respect him in a way. I respect his power, his intelligence. But I don't admire him the way he admires me. I don't like him. I don't envy him, or want anything that he's got. It would be awful to him."

Tom wanted to snarl at that statement - because how could it be worse to be him, when Harry was the one so near breaking?! It took everything he had to remain blank. "Voldemort wants me, I act as a desired sort of.._.prize_. A trophy of his murders. But he doesn't_ respect_ me, I don't think he really considers me outside of the parameters of his own projections at all. People don't respect their victims. Respect requires a sense of equality, or superiority, and the very nature of a victim is someone you have power over."

Harry seemed to come back to himself, out of whatever trail of thought he'd been following. Tom forced himself to breath out, deliberately, the image of calm despite the odd feeling in his blood. He wasn't sure why he felt almost...uncomfortable, exposed like a raw nerve.

He didn't tear his eyes away

"Do you view yourself as his victim?" he questioned, keeping his voice light.

Harry's gaze raked over him, and there was something electric in the air.

"I think...I think if I view myself as his victim, that I'll become it. People can be made victims by circumstance, but on a more personal level I believe victimhood is a state of mind."

Tom drained the rest of his own glass. Harry's eyes glanced up at him once more, tracking his movements.

"Do you view me as Voldemort's victim? I think most people do. Needing therapy for trauma…"

"I think you're a lot stronger than you would let people believe, whether you're conscious of the deception or not. You don't project steel, you project vulnerability. Victimhood. Sheep instead of the wolf, perhaps because you're in some part scared of the wolf, even though it's part of you. You cover your real strength with this parody of it, with the general attitude, hiding from everyone including yourself."

Harry's mouth opened for a second to say something, eyes wide with shock at the words, shoulders stiffening a little, before his jaw clicked shut, before opening once more.

"This coming from you? Half the time I wonder…"he stopped again.

"Wonder what?"

"How much of you is real. Obviously, you project a professional front, you have to, I'm your...client, so you're always going to have done so."

"This seems to bother you," he remarked. Harry had made enough snappish comments on the matter, one way or another, for that to be more than evident. "I assure you," he continued, "that's a natural response and product of my being your psychiatrist. You feel the need to even the knowledge base out-"

"-Is it so shocking to you that perhaps, just maybe, I'm simply curious about Tom Riddle the person and not the doctor, because I consider you one of my friends?" Harry bit out. "Or is that an inappropriate definition when you're paid by the hour to listen to my problems?"

"The hour stopped when Healer Smethwyck left," Tom pointed out. "You trust me in the hours you're off the clock more than you ever talk to me in a session."

Maybe he shouldn't admit such a thing explicitly, because of the suggestions on both of their side - maybe he should keep that professional distance...but he'd already acknowledged to himself that the more he saw, the more he wanted.

Perhaps Harry was right, in a way.  
He'd always been in the habit of taking trophies, coveting what other people had, regardless of if he truly wanted or needed it.

Harry studied him closely, and the air seemed to grow even sharper as the silence dragged. The other swayed forwards slightly.

"Then show me something real," Harry challenged, softly. "Something other than the suit and the cover of your psychiatric interests. What else goes on in your head?"

Tom's mind immediately started racing through his options, a way to turn this advantage. He could lie - he should lie, considering the most honest parts of him were murder and pain. Everything violent and dark, everything that it cost most for him to tell.

As the silence grew between them, he could just watch Harry's face close too.

"Forget it," the boy said stiffly, standing up.  
He stood up too, at the same time, before he was aware of it, and took several advanced steps forward until there was barely a breath between them.

Harry froze completely on the spot, as Tom let his fingers slowly trail up like he'd been wanting to do for a while now, scraping along the pulse point until he was holding the boy's chin deftly between his fingers .

Then he crushed their lips together.

Because he only had one thing outside of violence - and that was _want._

* * *

_A/N: Believe it or not, I can't actively write tension, and I can't tell when it's in my writing. Hopefully this hit the spot and wasn't way off the mark, contrived and awful. It's so different trying to actively write a relationship. Subtext is so much easier :/ Reviews would be much appreciated._

PS: Anyone who knows Hannibal canon, guess who Smethwyck is?

PPS: I find it funny how many people thought Tom's bit was cute, with Harry sleeping. Remember what this is based on whenever the subject of taste comes up :P


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23:

Harry couldn't say that kissing Tom Riddle was pleasant.

'Pleasant' was too pale a word when it felt like every nerve ending in his body had been electrified.

His eyes widened in shock, a rather embarrassing squeak he would never admit to escaping his mouth, before it softened to a small moan and he pressed forward automatically.

Of course, he'd imagined - in however idle or vague a way - what kissing Tom would be like before, though that was another point on his list of things he would profusely deny if ever questioned on. It didn't compare.

It felt like the world had narrowed down to one sharp shard of focus, following the heat of Tom's mouth against his own, and the slight tug at the roots of his hair when the other's fingers settled there, after it was obvious he wasn't protesting.

Harry's own hand crept up beneath the expensive material of Tom's three piece suit, as if he could claw the whole facade of professional away and leave the man as bare under his gaze as he always felt beneath the other's scrutiny, nails scraping against and mapping the unblemished skin.

Infuriatingly, he could still sense how contained Tom was being, even if the restraints had significantly loosened - as if the psychiatrist was terrified of the consequences of letting go entirely.

He could understand, he really could, but it still irritated him given the circumstances and his own prior demand. He bit down, hard enough to draw blood, was rewarded with a small gasp, something less composed, and then being abruptly shoved back into the seat he'd just rose from with the other's heavier weight pinning him down as Tom straddled him.

He felt a smirk, more careless than he'd managed in a while, cross his lips in triumph, and pulled the man closer. Whilst he hated being sucked into people's mind involuntarily, he had to admit there was a certain sense of appeal to worming his way into Tom's chest and validating his presence there, finding out what made him tick.

He could still feel a splinter of something hidden away, however much he tried to jab at it, wondered what was so terrible, brimming just beneath the surface, but he didn't mind. He hadn't asked Tom to give him_ everything_, just something real. And this was real, he could feel it - sense it in the way Tom crushed close to him and hostaged all thought and oxygen.

He liked the thought of having more pieces to learn and appreciate as time went on.

He felt dizzy from lack of air, in a heady, intoxicating sort of way, ground himself closer, legs wrapping eagerly around Tom's waist, causing the man to lurch a little and brace himself with his hands on either side of Harry's head.

He took the opportunity to pull back a little, as they both gasped down some air, Tom's head tipping forward a little, breath caressing over the pulse on his neck, their lips still inches away and - Harry froze completely as the reality of the situation crashed down on him, outside of waves of pleasure.

He shoved the other away in one quick movement, receiving a look of utter confusion that almost made him want to yank the other forwards again by his - delightfully crooked - tie.

Tom's eyes were glazed, with an intensity he rarely saw in them, his lips red and swollen - the immaculate facade splintered as he was sprawled bewildered and a bit pissed off on the floor by the chair. Harry doubted he himself looked much better, and for a moment he stared. He swallowed, thickly, felt sense slowly return to him without the maddening tease of Tom's fingers and lips gliding and crushing against him, the exquisite friction between them that pooled in his stomach, and squeezed his eyes shut, standing.

"I-I'm sorry - I can't - I just-_Voldemort_!"

* * *

Hermione paused at the sight that greeted her.

Harry was sitting against her front door, worrying his lip, hair dishevelled and clothes rumpled. She blinked, honestly not have expecting to find him there as she clutched her shopping.

He looked up at her, looking helplessly lost.  
"I just kissed Tom."

She let out a breath she didn't know was holding, and indicated for him to shift, so she could let both of them in.

"I'll put the kettle on," she said, dumping the bags down as Harry trailed in after her, shutting the door.

"I mean," and she wasn't sure if Harry was actually talking to her or himself, "technically he kissed me - and he really is very kissable, but-bloody hell."

"What happened?" she asked, torn between curiosity and intense disapproval. Riddle was Harry's psychiatrist! He had no place to be doing this, it was utterly unprofessional of him. If he found himself compromised in objectivity, he should have referred Harry to somebody else already!

Except, of course, she could acknowledge Harry was unlikely to find somebody else he would actually talk to very easily.

She'd heard all about the Dursley fiasco from Ron - honestly didn't know what to think of him anymore. She didn't...blame him, she could understand why he did it, but...but it was just wrong!

It wasn't his fault. Her best friend was practically screaming out for help. It was appalling that the Aurors hadn't interceded before it got this bad. He was very clearly a total mess!

Harry ran his hands through his hair, pacing up and down her kitchen.

"I ran."

"You _ran_?" she repeated. Psychiatrist or not - "Harry, you can't just kiss someone and just - just run! Did you say anything to him?"

Harry grimaced, and she sighed.

"Why did you run?" she asked. He gave her a flat look.

"Do I look like I'm in any position to have a relationship with anyone?" he raised his brows, and she could easily acknowledge the point. Harry wasn't stable enough for a relationship, he just wasn't. Recent events yelled that out so very clearly, that it was appalling that Riddle would even try and kiss Harry and confuse him more.. "And Voldemort has this habit of killing people I get close to," Harry continued, more to himself than anything else. "He's already attacked Tom once - I just - I couldn't. I actually like him."

"Please tell you stopped to explain some of this to him before bolting?" she returned, though already had her suspicion on the answer. Harry grimaced once more, accepting the cup of tea she shoved into his hand, though making no effort to actually drink it. "Harry, you have got to go and talk to him."

"He's smart, I'm sure he can figure it out."

"Harry!"

Harry set the cup down, wiping at his glasses again in a fashion she was beginning to loathe. She leaned against the counter, reaching down to pull her shoes off.

"I really like him, Hermione," he mumbled. "That makes it okay, doesn't it?"

"He's your psychiatrist. It's…."

"I know."

"And like you said, you're not really in any position to be-"

"I _know_."

"And Voldemort-"

"Hermione, I know!" He snapped, fists clenching. "You don't actually need to give me the reasons for and against, they've probably already gone through my head."

She tried not to feel hurt, and his shoulders hunched defensively.

"Sorry…"

"What do you want me to say then?" she questioned, folding her arms. "If you don't want my advice or opinion on the matter."

"I don't know," Harry muttered. "I guess I just wanted someone to listen."

Hermione softened, taking a step forward, but he shook his head, took a step back.

"Harry…" she said, softly. She tried to shove her own distaste aside. "Just talk to him. Clearly he's the one you need to talk to, not me. Do you want me to pretend to be him so you can practice?"

Harry snorted, but his shoulders untensed.

"No...no you're right. I should talk to him. I just- I don't know what to say."

"Tell him what you told me."

Harry nodded, wetted his lips.

"Thanks," he murmured. She gave him a slightly strained smile.

"Anytime." She paused, curiosity bubbling again. "So...was he a good kisser?"

Harry burst out laughing.

* * *

Tom Riddle was in a rather foul mood, though he tried to force himself to calm.

He'd had many expectations for kissing Harry, and he had to admit the boy had exceeded them. Though frankly, he didn't bloody well expect the brat to run out after practically screaming 'Voldemort' at him.

He didn't think it was an accusation, Harry hadn't phrased it as one, but in a way it would have been less offensive if it was because at least he could have simply attacked him and all pretenses on the matter would have dropped.

As it was, he was left trying to catch up, and he absolutely hated the feeling.  
Regarding the case of Harry Potter, he was rather used to feeling in control, with every step and outcome planned in his head.

He'd never factored this in, or the fact he would actually care if Harry ran away from kissing him. He wasn't that bloody bad a kisser! Actually, experience dictated he was a very good kisser and the other had certainly been enjoying himself.

Of course, at the time he'd been wary of letting the link open and projecting, so maybe not getting up so tangled was logically a good thing.

It didn't stop the dissatisfied ache though, the irritable frustration pooled in the pit of his stomach, and the overwhelming urge to kill something.

It was that, or find someone to finish what he started with Harry with (though he supposed that was true in both options of sex or violence) and he suspected the latter would be better for their overall relationship.

He could make dinner, and the boy could explain instead of just running so _rudely._  
If he didn't have a good enough explanation for his behaviour, then at least he got a rather exquisite dessert out of the affair either way.

His eyes narrowed.  
He couldn't even settle on drawing, he felt too agitated.

He worked well in his job, and in his extracurriculars, through a sense of objective distance that allowed him to see and plan everything. Whilst he'd fully intended to crawl into Harry's skin and head, he'd failed to consider how different things looked up close up, and how difficult it was to connect the dots when they blurred around him without the advantage of uncluttered vision.

Not that he had any intention of letting him go. Especially not now.  
As amusing as Harry was, he wasn't sure he could forgive the boy fleeing like that.

He strode across his kitchen, feeling an odd finally come across him as he decided. It was an icy sort of calm, as he plucked out his recipe book and considered the list of people he didn't like.

Maybe he had to do something to prod Harry into thinking about the people he really didn't want to lose in his life, something that would require Harry to need his psychiatrist rather desperately. If he didn't want him, he could damn well need him.

The feeling of Harry's mouth against his drifted through his mind as started his preparations with steady hands, the strain in the other's trousers as he'd been pressed against him, fingers tracing fire against his cool skin, the small ident of bitten skin on his lip that he sucked on as he thought. He'd have to be careful, he wasn't willing to go to prison for the boy, he had to frame the murder in something else.

He'd never thought Ron Weasley was a good friend for his _prize._

If _Voldemort_ was the better option to kissing Tom Riddle, then that was what the boy could get.

After all, it was only want or violence….

A slow smile spread across his lips.

* * *

_A/N: I'm guessing you guys probably weren't expecting full on smut, considering this is me. It will happen eventually, it's slotted in as a scene in my head however difficult it is for me to actually write, but I refuse to compromise my plot and characterization for getting them together. Sorry for those of you who somehow started reading me for smut. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter nonetheless :) _


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24:

Tom knew where the Auror lived, of course. He'd known for a whilst now.  
Most people really didn't seem to realize how fragile their illusion of security really was. They thought, just because they were at home, that they were safe.

He loved snatching people from where they were safe, lulling them and then ripping the safety net away from them to watch them flounder.

Fear was by far one of the most fascinating of human emotions.  
He relished every scrap he could draw, and the frisson it sent in the meat. Fear brought out the darkness lurking in people, their willingness to do anything to survive, the hunger.

He grabbed his coat, all of his equipment packed neatly in his bag, and headed for the door.

It was a crisp night, and with such a heavy feeling in his bones, perfect for murder.

He needed to get himself under control before his next session with Harry, because in his current mood he would not be able to resist from dragging a scream from his lips and watching blood well up on the other's skin. He certainly didn't have the patience to tolerate Smethwyck.

He took a glance around the road, before disapparating.

* * *

Harry didn't know how to actually breach the conversation topic, since he suspected by Hermione's reaction that a simple sorry wasn't going to cut it.

Not when he'd asked the man to bear himself, and then fled at what he got. After yelping out the name of a notorious serial killer, at that...

So he made dinner. He was actually quite a good cook, and Riddle seemed to enjoy that type of thing. It was a peace offering, as much as it was a barrier because it gave him something to hold and offer. Some initial small talk or sentence to start out with, rather than a gaping chasm of possible explanations and icebreakers.

Riddle wasn't in when he arrived, however, and he had no idea how long the other would be out or where he even was. He sat stiffly down on the doorstep with a heating charm to wait - if only because he left he wasn't sure he could bring himself to come back. Even for sessions.

Slowly, however, as the time dragged on, he found himself slumping as his initial panic faded, the race of justifications and excuses in his head, and his eyes slowly drooped.

Then everything went black.

* * *

Snatching Weasley was all too easy. For an Auror, he wasn't the smartest tool in the shed, and in comparison to working his way around the best defences the entire ministry could give, such a thing was child's play to the dark wizard.

Still, Tom preferred to kill in an environment he could entirely control and predict, and the Auror's house wasn't such a place as he'd never been there before.

He had the other knocked out and dragged, stashed in his bag with no broken bones. Yet. He rather prided himself on that extendable charm. Nobody would ever suspect how much stuff he had in the seemingly small bag. It also meant he could better contain things.

He absolutely did not expect to find Harry Potter fast asleep on his doorway, and was torn between laughing at the sight, or being incredulous that the other man would be so stupid as to leave himself vulnerable with a serial killer after him.

Regardless if he was the serial killer, that was hardly the point.

He was also suddenly very aware that he had a victim in his bag, and that if Harry caught even a glimpse that it would be all over.

The thought sent a delicious thrill down his spine. Though he couldn't say he was less irritated with the man. He took a careful step closer, before sniffing delicately, spying some tupperware containers under a stasis charm.

He plucked it up, examining it, before his eyebrows arched in surprise.  
Harry had made him dinner.

It softened his mood, though considering how foul his mood had been that might not be saying much to most people. It spared Harry's life though, because the current itch of bloodlust under his skin would have had him gutting the boy on sight pre-kill.

Despite his knowledge of how valuable Harry was.

Weasley would still die. He wasn't so forgiving, and the urge to kill was very difficult to shake once it settled.

Still. He adjusted his grip, considered waking the boy but wasn't sure he wouldn't do something rather on the Voldemort end of the spectrum if he had to listen to his excuses, and so finally just scooped him up. Harry stirred immediately as he was settled on his shoulders, tensing.

"Wha-Tom?" he slurred, before seeming to snap into awareness, struggling to get down.

It was very difficult to resist just knock him out again, and have a rather less refrained conversation in his other persona. Still, he let Harry down on the other side of the door, pulling it shut, and didn't offer him a hand when he swayed unsteadily.

If the man insisted on working late and getting sleep deprived, that wasn't his problem. At least not when he wasn't being paid to care.

"Do you normally lurk outside my door?" he questioned, coolly.

Harry wetted his lips, looked around with a slightly desperate air which may have otherwise been funny, before noticing his tupperware containers in Tom's hand.

"I made you dinner," the other tried. "I mean. I...I came to apologize. But you were out. And I only meant to wait a bit. Sorry."

"Which bit are you sorry for?" he returned, pushing the container back in Harry's hand. "The part where you shoved me of you in the middle of kissing, the fact you then ran, or the fact you decided to scream Voldemort at me? Because you might forget I am technically a suspect, despite I could hardly be old enough to murder your parents, but it is a little more difficult on my side of the spectrum to ignore when I could go to prison for it."

Harry's fingers twisted as he stared at the floor.

"All of them. I-bloody hell, I panicked, okay? I wasn't expecting you to kiss me! And the-you're my psychiatrist and-I mean, I enjoyed it, I did...I just...I can't do a relationship at the moment. One, Voldemort has a habit of killing people close to me - you should know, he already threatened to kill you once - and half the time my head is scrambled and it's not fair to put that pressure on you all the time because it's not like my...er, issues are going to magically disappear just because we get together!"

An argument could in some way be made against that, except that would require revealing his identity.

Tom blinked. Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it, especially as he could literally feel Harry's sincerity radiating at him. He'd expected some flimsy protest of 'I'm not gay' or whatever else.

"Well, at least you didn't start that explanation with 'it's not you it's me'," he stated.

Harry gave a snort, tugging a hand through his already wild hair.

"I'm sorry. I...didn't have the best reaction. I should have talked instead of running. I just didn't know what to do."

"Well, talking to your psychiatrist is normally how people deal with such things," Tom murmured. Harry shot him a weak grin.

"Yeah, I don't think that would be a good thing to bring up around Smethwyck. He'd have a field day. And then I'd probably get referred to him permenantly, and bloody hell even Voldemort has more grace than that twat."

"Voldemort kills people regardless," Tom tried,reaching out to nudge Harry's gaze to meet his own. "Surely that means you should make the most of it whilst you can? When you or they could die any day?"

Harry bit his lip.

"Maybe. Doesn't change the fact I'm not exactly...stable at the moment."

"I'm fully aware of what your psychological state is like, I'm your psychiatrist," he replied, trying not to sound impatient. Harry raised his brows, looked at him flatly.

"Yeah. But are you being objective about it? This isn't a bad teen romance, I'm not just going to suddenly be chipper and normal and happy if we kiss or have sex or whatever. It...doesn't work like that."

"Harry, I know." Now some of the impatience slipped through. "Do you not think I managed to think of all of this before?

Harry grimaced sheepishly.

Tom resisted the urge to pounce, to press his advantage - to go for the short term gratification of taking what he wanted, rather than the greater pleasure of Harry offering it willingly.

"I don't understand you, Tom," Harry murmured.

"You will," he promised. "With time. Trust me. Perhaps you should be getting home now?"

Harry swallowed, face dropping just slightly, before falling into perfect composure.

"Yes. Sorry. It's late. I need to stop intruding on you like this," the boy said, quickly, taking a step back. "I just-I needed to explain himself." The man at hesitated at the door, and Tom could feel that hunger swelling in his chest the longer the other stayed in front of him, so blissfully oblivious to the danger he was still in. He imagined the widening of green eyes if he was to lunge forward now, grab Harry by his throat and watch the Auror struggle for oxygen, pinks lips parted and pliant, gasping.

He noted Harry's gaze had fixed on his now. Noticed the other's throat bob.  
"We're...er...are we good?" the other asked.

"We're good," Tom stated, the rush growing beneath his fingers. He had too much energy built up right now, simmering rage and violence and that old want still in his blood.

"Good," Harry breathed. And maybe there was that want in the other's eyes too, fractured and different from his own, softer and sadder, but nonetheless there, gleaming among the verdant green. Tom found himself taking a step closer, then another. Harry's eyes fluttered shut as his fingers scraped gently over his cheek, as if frozen in the moment before shivering.

"It really is a shame," Tom murmured, almost against Harry's lips, "that you do not feel open to a relationship with me. I think you need something to make you feel good, outside of Voldemort's murders." He let his hand trace over Harry's throat as he swallowed again, eyes opening.

"Tom…" he started. Tom tightened his grip as it fell on Harry's shoulder, bypassing the jugular with some difficulty, and opened the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, in a much more professional tone, leaving Harry gaping at him, a slight flush of heat on his cheeks and the back of his neck.

"I-yeah, right. I was just leaving."  
He very obviously didn't want to. Maybe he didn't want to go back to the haunting emptiness of his own flat.

Even if Harry was denying it, it was clear something had shifted. The other looked at him, again, judging the way he was still more closed now, as if any barriers that had been opened had shuttered once more. He could practically see the pain of that, the hopelessness and the guilt - that isolation again.

Harry was terrified of being alone, perhaps because he never really was, and so feared being isolated with nobody but Voldemort to turn to in his own head. Nothing else to rely on except crumbling precipices which wouldn't be lasting much longer.

He could practically rub his fingers on Harry's barriers and defences, and watch them crumble to dust under the small pressure. He was inside, he'd crawled into Harry's heart and mind in all ways possible, even if he'd yet to complete his invasion. He was there, and it would always be so much more difficult to shake something that was already under your skin.

It sent triumph tingling through his mouth, despite everything. He could delicately pick away all that remained now, suck on the bone marrow until they were empty and he could fill them with his own. Own completely. Possess and cherish.

Harry wetted his lips, before turning and disapparating off the end of the porch without looking back.

Tom turned to his kill.

He suspected it would be over soon.

* * *

_A/N: So, as you might be able to guess from H's investigations and such, Butterfly Heart is nearing its end now. Teehee. At least the first part, depending on what I decide. I hope you're looking forward to the ride ;) On other matters, I'm gonna make another shot at Solace, because I have this constant itch to continue it, but have been stuck on the next chapter, so I'm just gonna skip to warn you._

_PS: To the anon who tells me to finish a fricking story before posting a new story...starting new stories is how I finish new ones. Otherwise I get bored. And BH is almost finished, so ha. Telling me what to do, as always, just makes me want to send a whole lot of new stories and spam your way. _


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25:

Weasley woke slowly, eyelids fluttering as if exhausted by the weight of the world.

It's not like Harry would wake up.

Harry would jolt into consciousness, like a man surging gasping from cold water, or the terrible nightmares which haunted the green-eyed man's dreaming hours. His body would be a taut line of tension which he could run his fingers down, chased by his lips as he watched the other shudder.

His victim now is flaccid. A limp smudge of stirring limbs and veins and bones and muscles - nothing extraordinary. He doesn't want to claw beneath his intestines, splicing his care like a knife between the ribs or breathe in every small scent and shift and flicker of emotion.

But he can feel the urge under his skin nonetheless, even in this displacement. The writhing darkness that twisted inside of him, itching and twitching beneath a friendly smile until it could lash out and he could be himself, as he is supposed to be. A creature of wrath and monstrous beauty.

He watched sky-blue eyes focus on him, so different to the ones he wanted to see - too pale, not bright and broken enough. The dissatisfaction pinched in his chest. Maybe it had been doing so for a while now.

"Riddle?" the Auror demanded, incredulously, starting to sit up - instantly realizing the restraints he was under and going still. Noting the way his arms and legs were spread. It only took a second, but maybe this was the bit that Tom enjoyed most.

He saw the horror filter in, the rage, the complete and utter fear which couldn't be denied. They were always so scared when they woke up, though maybe he could have some admiration for the way Weasley's jaw clenched around pleas for mercy unspoken, teeth gritted with rage.

He smiled, pleasantly.

"You're Voldemort." The horror was manifested now, such sweet horror. "Harry doesn't know."

"Don't they have intelligent tests to allow you into the Auror department?" He should be composed, he normally is, but there's a...rush. He knew this man was close to Harry, could envision in detail the effect, scratch at piece after piece of the rest of Harry's life until it belonged solely to him, without some red head or a mudblood laying claim to what was and would always be his.

"Why are you doing this?"  
It's a pointless question, one Weasley shouldn't need to ask but which they always do - though this one has a chin which juts in defiance and clenching fingers in their shackles.

"...because I can?" It was the most honest answer he could give. "Because everyone needs a creative outlet for a healthy and sane mind? Harry agrees that I'm quite the talented artist. He pretty much told me so."

"You sick-" Weasley began, viciously.

"Oh no, no, no…" Tom purred. "I'm perfectly healthy. Don't worry. No need to be rude."  
He hummed, turning away from the specimen, letting his fingers run over his equipment as he contemplated.

Of course, he didn't need to have a variety of knives and other medieval assortments lined up in front of his victims, and he didn't even use most of them - but the fearful effect they created really was rather delicious.

He'd have to fact dinner in.  
Harry tended to stop eating when he got upset.

He could feel the Auror thrashing and struggling behind him, hear his rabbit-heart fluttering frantically in his chest. Not that it did the man any good. He was too well secured. There was nothing he could do, and Tom was certain they wouldn't be interrupted this time.

He turned again, noticed the ugly sweat pooling against his prey's t-shirt, the slight belly born of paperwork and sugar in tea. Contemplated his options, everything already sterilized and prepared beforehand in the space between Harry's departure and waking up.

He could have picked Granger, of course - she'd always posed a greater threat with her intelligence, and with wiped memories crumbled in her head. But this was much more to his preference, and Granger was more tolerable than most.

"So what type of butterfly am I going to be?" Weasley tried, acidically. Whilst reactions were art in themselves, which final moments catalogued against the thing they couldn't escape, and he could, the Auror was starting to ruin his buzz with his voice.

He let his smile only broaden.  
"Oh, you're not going to be graced with such beauty, Mr Weasley."

Then there was blood, and screaming, and the only real happiness and freedom he ever felt.

* * *

Harry knew he should go back to his flat after leaving Tom, get some of the rest his body desperately pleaded for, but...well, he couldn't.

There were many differences between his bed and flat, and by all accounts he should reasonably prefer his own.

He doesn't.

His own flat seemed too cold and sterile, a parody of a home - never lived in, barely used as the months slipped by without the Voldemort case being solved. He was barely ever there, and all that is there is more work.

What used to be a spare room is a stripped down web of images and articles, exactly like his office, to peer at scenes of bloody murder in the night because if he shut his eyes he'd be doing so again in a far more intimate, less lucid way.

The fridge has some stale milk, and a half used tub of butter. A carton of Orange Juice and a the cupboard some bread. Some cakes Mrs Weasley had sent him a months ago, in a care parcel, from when he'd first started seeing Tom. There are the remnants of the dinner he'd made Tom still, a small touch of activity in an otherwise frozen snapshot.

The only thing he has in any significant quantity is beer and firewhiskey, and he doesn't like to think what that says about the man he's become.

The entirety of the flat is clinical, something which may have been homely a long time ago but which had faded along with him until it was a place to sleep, and sometimes not even that.

Tom's house, by comparison, was warm and elegant, with soft sheets and a kitchen that was always full of delicious looking things and a recently used, well cared for atmosphere. Everything was gleaming and clean, and whilst he wouldn't necessarily say the man's house was anything but as immaculate as the psychiatrist himself, it fits Tom.

There are signs of life, of rich classical symphonies played on record, and of no dust beneath the cabinets. He's never seen Tom's bedroom, and the thought now made something seize up and spasm in Harry's chest, but he imagined that would be less stiff than his own creased sheets.

Maybe the crux of it is that his flat was empty, and Tom's had...well, Tom.  
Hell, in recent days, it was a toss-up if he spent more time stewing in Riddle's office, or his own.

Either way, it would surprise absolutely _nobody _that he went back to his office instead, slipping into the darkened Ministry, far more familiar with the vacancy of everyone having left it more or less than employees really should have any right to.

Initially, Scrimgeour had kicked him out, told him to go home - but when it was more than obvious that he was just lugging books and case notes back to his flat and continuing there, they relented and figured he may as well just stay in his office if he was that desperate.

He settled at his desk, rubbing his bleary eyes, feeling the photos around him and his memories smear across his vision. He didn't know where he stood with Tom now, and it left him uneasy, cursing his own stupidity in bolting like that.

He'd been trying to protect the other, but it seemed Voldemort wasn't the only one capable of hurting people. He was already intimately aware of his own capacities for destruction.

He flicked open his book on Geneology once more. Didn't think about Tom's lips crushed against his own, and the heat coiling down his spine, the breath puffing against his pulse at the heady intent in his psychiatrist's eyes as he leaned in close to him…before promptly gesturing him out of the door.

He tugged at his hair. Tom was too distracting. He should be focused on Voldemort, because the sooner he caught the killer, the sooner everything would get better.

The sooner he could sleep.

He froze on the page he was about to flick past, going back.

The Gaunts. Very old family, fallen off the scale.

He'd decided to focus on the less known purebloods, bypassing the Blacks and Malfoys because whilst they were mostly a long line of Slytherins both, he was also certain they would not make such a heritage secret.

His eyes narrowed down the trace of names…Medea…many others…Marvolo…Morfin…Merope…

And then it cut. The book, an old pureblood text, just seemed burned and charred. It was supposed to be self-updating, it should have been easy to find the pureblood Slytherin Lord.

Unless…unless of course Voldemort himself wasn't a pureblood. His eyes moved to Merope Gaunt again, thoughtfully. The time date would work, though Voldemort would be older than any of them expected if that was the case.

Then again, he remembered those scarlet eyes, the snakelike visage and bone-white skin. Inhuman. He also remembered wondering if that was the Dark Wizard's real face, or a glamour. It could be anyone. A half blood male, who he was convinced to be in some way related to the Gaunt family…

Definitely time to do some more thorough research into the family history, and what had happened to Merope Gaunt.

He was just standing when a dizzying sense of happiness, and violence surged through him, alien. He could have moaned, sinking to the ground, his head spinning. It was unfettered, unrestrained, and he clawed at it faintly – would have followed it if he had the Mind Arts capabilities. Could only breathe in and out, clutching the leg of the table trying not to pass out beneath the overwhelming sensation, to remain within himself and not feel the hot blood dripping across his hands.

He felt his breathing grow shallower, eyes widening, blank and glazed, fixed on a point in the wall. He wished he could stop himself from shuddering all over. He wasn't asleep, wasn't dragged into the murder so easily, maybe he was even being blocked, he didn't know…

Everything was hazing around him, images flashing in his eyes. Red hair, red skin stained and…oh god…oh god…

He was glad he was already sitting down when he blacked out.

* * *

He'd known that the crime scene was coming, of course, but…nothing could have steeled Harry for it either way.

No immediate deductions would come to mind, just the onslaught of emotions again, that wild happiness surging in his chest so at odds with the bile in his throat.

His mind felt fragmented, buzzing with white noise. Even Gaunt didn't matter right then. He stared, face slack and his eyes hollow.

He'd first met Ron in first year, and they'd been best friends ever since. The other had always been there when he needed him, in his own way. He'd been the first friend he ever had, the first to make him feel like maybe he was normal.

And this…this was his fault. He could hear people saying it wasn't, but it _was.  
_He breathed in, out. Could feel people buzzing around him, taking photos of the crime scene, the dingy back alley.

He couldn't think of him simply as the 'victim', he couldn't. Whilst he'd never been able to disengage himself from Voldemort's crimes as he would have liked, in the recent months it had all got so much more personal.

Sometimes he wondered if he should succumb, give in, lay himself down at the bastard's feet and beg for the mercy of not killing anyone else. He'd give anything to have the crushing burden lifted from him, to see vacant eyes spring to a familiar life again, with a warm smile tugging at lips.

A choked sound caught in his chest.  
The message was clear enough, even in shock. He clutched his arms tighter around himself, protectively, unable to pretend anymore that everything was fine.

He was sinking. Barely even noticed when he was sitting on the floor, all professionalism moot and discarded. Maybe he'd never had it.

Nothing about this was fine. Absolutely nothing!  
He had to make the bastard pay for this. He just had to. Stop him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Heard someone yell about contaminating the crime scene. None of it would make sense in his hears.

He flinched and startled, the world sounding like it was being issued from underwater, when a hand came to rest on his shoulders. He opened his eyes. Blinked. Looked up at her. At the blood on his hands where he'd automatically caught himself.

"Harry?" Tonks eyed him worriedly. His mouth felt dry, didn't want to form the words "Get him off the scene, for god's sake!" he heard his fellow Auror cry.

He wondered how he must look to them, how _weak,_ that even Scrimgeour didn't protest after everything. The pity wanted to make him sick. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even when someone grabbed him by his shoulders to steer him away, hauling him up, dabbing at his hands with a dump cloth.

He could hear Tonks screaming at their boss for even bringing him in the first place. Felt too numb to appreciate it. Kept one foot going in front of the other. Felt the demand for analysis, just like always, perched beneath his chin.

The body looked rotten, covered in what looked like maggots crawling in and out of him and his ravaged chest. On closer examination, he found they weren't maggots at all. They were catterpillars. Hundreds of catterpillars.

Not yet butterflies.  
Maybe the victim of choice screamed out the reason.

He wondered if Voldemort knew of his deception, and was punishing for it. Let out a shaky breath. Maybe he should cry, feel the hot tears swell across his cheeks and burn down in a trail but there was just – just nothing.

He wasn't sure he had anything left to give anymore.  
At times it felt better, he'd revitalise, pull on his reserves of strength and convince himself that he could bring Voldemort to justice. Another murder should provide him with more evidence, more and more opportunity for a slip up, and he had Gaunt now – but…

Every time he crashed. Something like this would happen, and it would. All. Just. Crash. A hopeless rage he didn't have the eloquence to verbalise, heart feeling too faint and too raw at the same time to make any sense.

Just sensations and impressions.

"Caterpillars. Not yet Butterflies. He's a link to such things. He's my old life. Who I currently am. A tie. Voldemort took his heart and put caterpillars in its place. I'm moving too slowly. Not growing. Stuck decomposing instead of becoming what he wants me to be."

"Harry-" it was Kingsley with him, he noted it absently, voice low and soothing. "You don't have to talk. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. He wanted to scream at the useless attempt at comfort. He pulled away, barely refrained from sprinting away from his problem again. Running and running as if he could escape everything happening and never look back.

He stopped instead, shuddering.

Gaunt.

Maybe Hermione would hate him for this.  
He hated himself for it too.

He didn't understand anymore.

Didn't know how long he sat in his office, unscrambling his mind, setting himself to rights for the final battle. He could practically taste Voldemort's identity. Heard the door creak open, didn't want to deal with Hermione's tears. Ignored Smethwyck too as the man offered his condolences and his starched repulsive version of pity and sympathy.

Didn't say a word. Let his mind drift away from Ron, to Gaunts and the story he was tracing.

Still knew the second Tom walked in, obviously called in to deal with the broken Auror. He gave a bitter laugh at that, disconnected.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked, quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"What's wrong with me? What's so bad about me that I…bring out such violence and hate in somebody?"

He kept his eyes on his notes, stiffened as a hand slipped around his waist.

"Let's get you home," Tom murmured. Harry shook his head, drew strength, the scraps of it and mashed it into sword and shield, straightened.

"No. I have something I need to take care of."

Maybe he was broken. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it had never mattered to anyone but himself.  
He needed to track down Merope Gaunt, and the last known location was Little Hangleton.

_Time to end this._


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26:

Harry knew the second he arrived at Little Hangleton that he was close.  
He didn't know what it was, but he could feel it. He was some way outside of the town, and so close to Christmas, hell, it might even have been the morning's of Christmas Eve now, he didn't know, it all scrambled and meant nothing...the air was frigid with cold, and his feet stamped frost to the ground as he approached the gloomy looking village.

God, even the name sounded like it destined all of its inhabitants to be serial killers.

He pulled his coat and scarf tighter around himself. It was evening, but not unbearably late, and he could see lights. He made a beeline for the pub - and the Hanged Man? _Really? _

Any kid who grew up here had no chance of not being messed up. He entered in a swirl of cold air at his back, slamming the door shut against it. He was immediately greeted by hostile and stony faces, somehow haggard.

He wetted his lips, standing awkwardly in the doorway for a moment.

He really hoped this wasn't one of those villages that refused to talk to outsiders, and gave a tentative smile before making his way towards the bar.

He sat down, ordering a beer, and, eventually, despite the interested glances still sent frequently in his direction; the conversation swelled again as he did nothing to particularly draw attention.

He drank in silence for a while, before leaning over to get the attention of the bar tender, pulling a badge out. All of the Aurors had them, for their rare times their work led them into Muggle fields of police work.

His own badge simply said he was an officer in Scotland Yard.

"Excuse me, sir," he started politely, hoping the man would just co-operate with him because otherwise Harry wasn't at the level of patience to properly deal with the situation. He would just end up compelling the man to answer him straight. "I'm here on a follow up investigation, simply standard procedure, nothing to worry about. I believe a Gaunt family lives in this area, could you perhaps tell me about them?"

For a moment, the man just stared at him completely blankly, a bit confused and more suspicious than Harry was comfortable, before something seemed to click in his expression.

"That family's been dead a long time, officer. Good thing to, bunch of nutters they were. Real odd. Bit funny in the head, I should think."

"What happened?" Harry asked, satiated at least somewhat to finally be getting answers, to claw at Voldemort's life and history when his own already felt so exposed to the killer.

"It was quite the scandal," the man said, now with the air of relish. It was clear they didn't get strangers very often, to discuss such details with. "Of course, the men were always violent. Got sent to prison both of them, for the trouble they caused in town. Nobody missed 'em when they were gone."

"There was a girl, wasn't there?" Harry interrupted. "Merope?"

The man gave him a sideways look, before nodding after squinting a moment. Harry didn't even feel another gust of cold wind as his back as the door opened and closed again.

"Ay, that's right," the bartender said. "Merope Gaunt. The tramp's daughter, running off with the Squire's son-"

Voldemort's father, it had to be, and in that second, Harry couldn't even think to snatch up the details, to find out what happened, to try and pin down what could make someone so cool as to murder over fifty people in the course of their life, he could barely breathe. Could feel something uneasy in his gut, something wrong that made tension coil up his back.

Then he realized what it was. The entire pub had gone quiet again, just like it had when he entered. He instinctively reached for his wand, only for another hand to grab his wrist, twisting back, and for long fingers to wrap around his throat, pulling his head back where he sat.

"Riddle." He recognized the soft, velvety voice that had so often reassured him immediately, and the excited breath that pulsed against his cheek, the lips that teased the shell of his ear. "My father's name was Tom Riddle."

The second after that, everything went black.

* * *

Of course, it had been easy for Tom to dart his eyes down, to catch a glimpse of Harry's notes and scan across to see the current line of enquiry.

He was glad that Harry was so caught up in the turmoil of his own grief, because he was ashamed to say his breath stuttered when he saw the name 'Gaunt'.

He'd…never realized Harry had gotten quite that close. That he'd been _hours _away from everything he worked for being unravelled by the boy, his failure sharp on his tongue and a rabbit heart thud in his chest.

He was composed with relief a second later. Because he had the time now, the advantage, and he had a feeling he knew exactly where Harry would be going. So he let him, felt a dizzying sense of euphoria growing in his chest.

Now…now they could truly be together. Now Harry could see him properly, with no lies and glamours and touches of their mind that just weren't enough or satisfying in comparison to the unbearable need to consume and possess.

He entered the pub silently, after having stalked and shadowed Harry in his adorable eagerness to discover the truth, and let the door shut. He could have shuddered with pleasure at the moment, let it crystallize and immortalize in his mind, fingers locking tightly around Harry's wrist, feeling his pulse start to already raise on the brink of everything.

He grabbed the boy's throat, so he didn't do anything stupid, and because he loved the way those beautiful lips parted in silent cry for air. He inhaled deeply, to the smell of rain in Harry's hair and the sweet, cloying scent of a bloody crime scene still etched below something woodsy and warm.

Everything about the boy, even now, was warm and alive. He adored it, his eyes fluttering shut for a bare second. He could practically taste Harry's fearful anticipation, feel the stiff coil of defiance of a fight he would never have the honour to allow in his shoulders and that small intake of breath as he let his teeth graze against Harry's skin.

Harry had wanted something real, and in that second he bared himself entirely.  
Then he sent a stunner into his gut because this required something far more intimate than a grubby pub.

The boy went limp in his arms, a dead weight which he easily draped over his shoulder, so similarly to before. The villagers stared at him in horror, one of them starting to move, bravely, in defence.

If he had time, he would have slaughtered them all, so that this moment would forever be his and Harry's alone.

He obliviated them instead, and took his prize.

* * *

Harry felt like a shard of ice had gone straight through his gut, his mind pierced with a startling clarity. It was the same sharpness that woke him from sluggish unconsciousness.

Everything had clicked horribly into place.

Cold.

Tom was Voldemort.

_Tom was Voldemort. _Voldemort and Tom were the same people.

He felt sick. Clammy.

He didn't know where he was when he woke up, it was certainly no place that he had ever been before. He could feel cold restraints, entwined with magic, around his wrists and ankles holding him in – oh god.

_Butterfly. _

Bile clawed up on his throat, an intense fear so much worse than simply being tied up, that for a moment he couldn't think for the buzz of panic which devoured all rational thought.

The room was dark, but he managed to fix his gaze on the shadow standing by an old window. The room looked old, recently cleaned, and the sheets beneath him were nowhere near the elegance Tom demanded, though they were of an old, but rich material.

Sheets. He was tied down to a bed.  
Considering T-Voldemort had kissed him, that little facet did absolutely nothing to make him feel better.

Voldemort was Tom.  
Tom was Voldemort.

Rage filtered slowly, a draft through the cracks of a window.

Harry resisted the urge to swallow, tumbling through the darkness in his mind as the illusion shattered beneath his feet.

Tom Riddle had crumbled to dust, and with the yanking of the crutch, he felt himself do so too. Harry couldn't look away from the figure, it was like watching a car crash, and he remained so still that he was almost quivering on the spot. Voldemort hadn't turned to face him, his posture relaxed, but Harry knew instantly that the man knew he was awake.

Knew everything.

There was no hiding of their connection now, it was torn and blasted open, until the room was drenched and saturated with the emotions rife between them.

He could taste the sharp edges of possessiveness, the heady obsession in his gut and he didn't know if that was Voldemort's, or his own in the pictures scattered across his room and his life consumed by catching and hunting the man in front of him.

Beneath the shards of violence, was something thick and rolling far more like pleasure, which tickled his palette like the richest of dark chocolates. His mouth felt unbearably dry.

"Are you going to kill me?" Despite everything, Harry was proud to say that his voice was steady. Somehow, once he acknowledged that this was actually happening, he almost felt calmer. Oddly, he had Tom to thank for that. His psychiatrist was the one who'd put him in a pseudo practice of this.

He just wasn't so optimistic as to believe he would be tucked into bed with an expression of concern faked so sweetly on Tom's face, this time.

The Dark Wizard turned, and his expression was so jarringly pleasant that part of Harry's mind wanted to insist that this was a mistake, some twisted therapy session that had inadvertently slipped a little too far.

The emotions told him differently. They told him everything. Of love and hate, and want most of all, of a desperate need for him to understand and to model a perfect companion, no matter the cost on the person he used to be, no matter that he had to shatter Harry Potter beneath his foot to get the acquired result.

He didn't look away, and Voldemort strode lazily towards him, coming to a stop by the edge of the bed. Harry almost flinched as soft fingers reached out, tenderly caressing the side of his face.

He had a feeling the other wasn't going to answer. Swallowed.

"You lied to me. The whole time. You said you were my friend." His voice cracked, just slightly, and Tom gave him a gentle smile that splintered cruel around the edges.

"I _am_ your friend, Harry."

What made Harry's head spin was the complete sincerity he could feel thrumming. Tom-Voldemort honestly thought – of course, he'd always known Voldemort had this twisted sense of saving him, of allowing him the freedom and beauty of a butterfly, but when he was staring into the face of Tom Riddle, it just scrambled nauseatingly. "There's so much that you don't know," the man continued, and there was fervour to his eyes now, a passion and excitement that clenched in Harry's throat. "So much that I couldn't tell you…"

"But it's so much easier to talk to a dead man, right?" Harry bit out, harshly, not caring if he destroyed the other's euphoric mood.

The other looked at him, flatly, expression going cold once more, soft fingers turning to claws that raked a harsh stinging line down his cheek, burning in his skin.

"You came here to find the truth…of me…and of us perhaps a little too," Voldemort murmured, moving around, his wand drawing as Harry's heart stopped. "I won't deny you. Not anymore. I can give you everything, if you let me. I'd like to."

The wand dragged across his torso, splaying his shirt to tatters on either side, exposed flesh immediately growing cool in the room.

"If you can give me everything," he near whispered. "Let me go, and put the wand down. We…can work this out, together. You and me. Tom…just trust me, like I trusted you. I can help y-"

He screamed out in agony as the other's hand clamped on his forehead, and he realized then that Tom had never touched his head like that. His cheeks, yes, but never his forehead. Not that he would have had any reason to, but…

It felt like the lightning bolt scar was aflame, in a way he'd never experienced before. His back arched against the sheets, writing, frantically trying to get away.

Then it was gone, and he was panting, chest heaving, as Voldemort looked down at him, fingers soothing down his clammy skin.

Their gazes locked, and the other twirled his wand.  
**"It starts…and perhaps ends, with this bed. Welcome to the Riddle House, my butterfly.**"

* * *

_A/N: I'm going to hide now._


	27. Chapter 27

Harry swallowed, thickly, breath caught somewhere in his chest as he stared up at the mad-man looming over him.

It all felt so surreal, far too fast and sudden.

He'd spent _years _of his life searching for this man, hunting him down, feeling his emotions (but-never-quite-like-this) and crawling into each other's heads, however unwillingly, that it seemed strange to have a face for Voldemort.

The real face, not those scarlet eyes and serpentine features.

It was dizzying. All too much, with the betrayal still coursing like ice in his veins, to clash with the heat of loathing and too many other things in his gut.

The Riddle House...he couldn't help but strain against his restraints some more, only for Tom to smirk, circling the bed again with the predatory slowness of a hunter that knew perfectly well his prey wasn't going anywhere.

But he knew he had to stall.

"My mother, you see," Tom started, in that velvety tone of his, as if he was just calmly discussing a point in one of their sessions. "Was a rather weak woman, who lived a wretched life. So, of course, she would fall for handsome, _muggle _Tom Riddle, the squire's son. He was everything she wanted in life, and an escape most of all."

Harry couldn't tear his eyes away, could feel the way Tom's wand tapped against his skin and the silk sheets in a way that may seem idle to a casual observer, but made Harry's blood itch with agitation and wariness.

"So, one day, when he rode past on a particularly hot afternoon, she coaxed him into accepting a glass of water from her...spiked with a love potion. They were very happy together for a while, as she kept drugging him...and then my _dear _mother found she was carrying their child." Tom's gaze seared straight into his. "One would think, wouldn't they, Harry, that parents would do anything for their child?"

The images flashed behind Harry's eyes of a Halloween a long time gone, of vacant eyes and of his mother pleading with Voldemort to spare him...and how the hell did Tom look so young when he must be so old by now if the villagers could scarcely remember the Gaunts…his stomach lurched uneasily.

"My father tossed my mother to the street the second he found out she was a witch," Tom said icily. "But you know exactly what it feels like to be called a freak for something you have no control over, don't you?"

The words ached in his chest, and he couldn't help the sympathy mixing into the turmoil of everything else.

"That doesn't excuse killing over fifty people," he said, in a quiet voice. "What did my parents do to you, Tom? Or was it just that we were happy and you were alone. I've been in your head…" he swallowed, aware that what he was doing was stupid, but unable to stop, "and honestly I've never felt more lonely. You have _no one_, and you destroy anything that has a chance of getting close so it doesn't hurt you. You need to control it and crush it and pin anything beautiful to a fucking wall because you can't _stand it." _

By the end he was all but screaming the words at Voldemort's face, and the next second the other was top of him, straddling his waist, teeth bared.

"And what about you?" Tom hissed. "A selfish little brat who can't see the gift I'm giving you. I've seen you slump into my office day after day as you let other people and your boss stomp you down and crush you into dust, when all you do is never enough for them. You have your friends, but they don't really understand, do they? They've always been whole. Loving families, loving homes and you feel almost sick knowing you'll never have that. You're so fettered by this idea that you owe the world something, because then maybe then you'll be accepted into it, that you will left people use and abuse you until there is nothing left. The difference between you and me, _dearest_, is that I have always stood up for myself and punished the people who have wronged me, whilst you make excuses for them and take their behaviour as some mark of your own freakishness. Earlier today you asked me what _you _did wrong to cause me to fixate on you, as if my actions are anything but my own and born from my own desires."

Harry stared, wide-eyed, and Tom's gaze seemed to burn, bleeding scarlet, the handsome visage twisted with a wild sort of rage and _madness _that Harry had never seen before.

"I take what I want and you ask permission-"

"Oh, just like your mother then," Harry bit out. Tom's grip tightened on his throat, squeezing, and black dots danced in his vision, his mind churning dizzy and almost euphoric because despite everything he knew that what he saw now was undeniably real. All professionalism clawed down and the other stripped bare in front of his eyes. "Gonna take what you want from me too? Got me damn well tied down to a bed."

There was a moment of screamingly loud silence, and Tom gave a rather nasty smile.

"I could, you know," he said, softly, and Harry's eyes widened further as the emotions started to assault his already overwhelmed mind, giving a low groan.

Images of their kiss flew through his head, coiling hot in the pit of his stomach with the heady want in Tom's eyes and the dizzying rush of not being able to breathe properly.

It was like being hit with an aphrodisiac, suddenly he couldn't help but feel intently aware of himself, of the way Tom's fingers dragged like fire against his skin, and his hips weighed heavily on certain parts of his anatomy.

He swallowed, thickly.

He could feel the need building in his chest, the emotions which weren't his in his head, but which felt like they were and he couldn't _think _straight, his hips rolling up a little with frustrated discomfort, trousers starting to strain.

"All chemicals in the brain, Harry," Tom smirked. "You should be careful who you show the switch board too." The other shifted down a little, trailing the wand down his slightly straining chest. "Hold still, or this is going to hurt a lot," was the only warning before Tom had used his wand to slice straight through the seam of his trousers, sending them to tatters just like he had his shirt.

Harry went rigidly still, disorientated, mind mimicking the grazing of his lips against his neck and snatching up the details of any such encounter he'd ever had. He couldn't help a small groan, catching to a near-whimper in the back of his throat, eyes glazed, hips bucking up slightly and…Tom pulled back, and the feelings stopped but for the lingering echo.

"But," Tom stressed, "I won't, and I think it bothers you that you know that I have never forced you into anything."

"You made me kill Crouch!" Harry struggled to re-organize his thoughts. Tom raised his brows.

"I set up the situation. The choice was yours. You could have walked away. I didn't put any mind controlling curses on you." Riddle let go of his throat, and he couldn't help but cough, gasping down air. "I could have had you institutionalized under my personal care in a straightjacket; I could have spiked one of the numerous meals or drinks you've accepted from me with a love potion. I didn't."

"And you want me to be grateful that you didn't torture me as much as you could have?" Harry croaked, but, under the surface, his mind was writhing. He knew what Tom was getting at, of course he did. He knew from the trail of bodies he'd chased across London that mercy was not characteristic of the self-named Lord Voldemort.

The other looked set to strangle him again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly couldn't help but feel exhausted – almost thought Tom slicing him up (as he was probably intending to, seeing as he was clearing his canvass with the removal of clothes) would have been less traumatic than just bloody well talking to the man.

His eyes snapped open again at the sharp slap to his cheek, and he blinked.

"Eyes open," was all Tom said, with a twist of his lips.

Right, all the victims had opened eyes. He probably liked watching the hope leave along with life. A shudder ran down his spine, which Tom seemed to drink up and devour too.

There were few things Tom hadn't taken from him yet. He wanted to pull his arms and knees to his chest, for some semblance of warmth and comfort, but there was no chance of that, was there?

He wetted his lips, breathed out, stomped onto the buzz of panic once more.

"You never answered my question," he said, quietly. "Why did you target me and my parents?"

"Your father was an Auror, on my case though he didn't know it was mine at the time, when he started. He got too close, or rather, Lily Evans did. It was just business."

"Business?" Harry's voice cracked, and Tom's face softened, gentle fingers trailing over his skin once more.

"It's not business anymore, don't worry. You're different."

"Why?" It was a question that had circled incessantly through his mind, repeated a million times on other people's lips as they looked at him, as they tried to save him and cut themselves on the pieces, or stared at him with accusation after he told them Voldemort had killed their son or daughter or lover or mother or friend. Why.

Why did he let this happen? Why was Voldemort doing this? Why hadn't he caught him yet? What was it about him that was so wrong as to bring such violent urges in the man?

Tom's head tilted to the side in an almost reptilian fashion, and his face may have been soft but those eyes never once warmed. He wondered why he hadn't noticed that before, thought maybe he'd projected his own affections and misplaced obsession and fascination for caring.

"That's a secret for another day," Voldemort murmured, eventually. "Once I'm sure I can trust you. Suffice to say, you are my soul mate."

Harry nearly choked, brain stuttering to a halt, wide-eyed.

Oh god, the man was more deluded than he thought, though he suspected that breaking the fantasy would simply be his own destruction. He wondered if he even cared anymore, or just wanted it to be over.

Tom's gaze raked over his face, and his grip tightened slightly.  
"I'm helping you," he said, once again. "I think you know that, once you get over your unnecessary moral fussing. I understand you acting like this is one sided, but I think we both know it stopped being that a long time ago."

Harry wanted fervently to deny it, to deny that anything in this was mutual, but the words ran dry in his mouth under Tom's gaze.

He remembered his own thoughts; he remembered his empty flat and the bits of his life and relationships getting swallowed up one by one. He remembered Hermione worrying about him getting in too deep with this case, and he remembered his own inability to stop.

Riddle's smile broadened.  
"Exactly. Just stop fighting it. We're connected, you and I, and we always will be."

For the first time since this whole mess started, Harry let a smile cross his own lips too, and not a particularly nice one at that, taking some pleasure in how quickly Voldemort's dropped.

"What?" the man growled.

"It's funny," Harry said, almost softly. "You placed so much of your time and effort into making sure I was just as messed up as you were. I haven't had a steady girlfriend in years, my social life consists at staring at pictures of your murders and trying to think who would be next as if I could stop it. You walked into my head and rearranged the furniture as if it was your own home…" he stared at Tom, hard, when the man dared to look smug, wetted his lips. "I know I've said around you before that Voldemort just cares about me in the frame of his own desires, and this just proves it."

"What are you talking about?"

"My flat," Harry stated.

"What about it?" the other bit out, starting to look a bit annoyed. Harry suspected he'd expected this scene to play very differently. Of course he did, he had all these ideas and expectations, pinned on a pedestal and not a real person. A fantasy Harry Potter, and maybe a fantasy relationship. It was almost normal, if not for the violence inherent.

"Has a copy of my notes, and thus leads straight here," Harry said flatly. "Or did you not imagine swallowing up my life would mean an office to you in my flat?" Voldemort had completely frozen, and Harry gained a sick sense of satisfaction from it, grin cracking a little mad around the edges. "And I never once invited you in, because I spent so much time at your place in therapy because I couldn't stand to spend time in my own."

He could see Tom's thoughts racing, spinning ahead through points and comebacks, on the thoughts of how easily a face could be changed rendering the current investigation useless for a new identity, and how Hermione Granger worried and there was probably a team already here in the time they spent talking.

The man sucked in a sharp breath, and Harry heard the tramp of footsteps on the stairs, grinning wider. It faded when Tom's wand flicked, and a knife appeared in his hand.

Illusion shattered. Side not joined. Understanding perhaps, a painful understanding that denied unadulterated hatred, but not enough. A shard of defiance left, and a victory which soured in his mouth and didn't feel like a triumph at all.

"Very clever, Harry," Tom breathed, flipping off him, behind him a moment after that so Harry was stuck chained between him and the door, arms contorted backwards so much he felt like his shoulders were about to dislocate, back arched. The other pressed a kiss to his cheek, lips against his ear. "But you know this isn't over. It's _never _going to be over, and whilst you still have questions you're always going to be coming to me. You know my sessions were the only time you had peace, my murders your happiness. You're disorientated now, angry naturally, but that doesn't change that I'm the only person who will ever truly understand you and _love _you for everything, not just the Golden Boy hero. You can make mistakes with me."

The door slammed open.  
"So let's give you something to remember that by."

They both knew how Voldemort made butterflies.

Harry screamed as the knife plunged straight into his gut.

* * *

_A/N: THE END (of part one.) Those of you who know Hannibal/Silence of the Lambs, might have a vague idea of what comes next. But yeah. This one was about Harry finding out Tom was Voldemort...the next, well, you'll just have to wait and see. _

_This chapter was stupidly difficult to write, and I had a thousand different ideas and I'm still not entirely convinced the middle bit came out as I wanted it to, but my tweaking isn't doing anything because I can't pin down what I wanted with it. I hope you managed to appreciate it anyway. If you've enjoyed this story, I'd love to hear what you thought of it!_

Part 2 will probably start around the time NBC Hannibal starts again, seeing as I started this story to deal with my feelings for that show :P Don't worry, no new alerts needed, I'll just continue on from this one. But nonetheless. Hope you liked Part One of Butterfly Heart! :D 


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